Meh.

Two weeks in Thailand.

2010-10-02T11:03:00.001+08:00

I have been away.

Everyone starts perking up when I say I've been away for two weeks. "Ooh, where did you go? Who did you go with? Did you have fun?" The answers are, Thailand, about 700 men and no, not really. It was with the army, on re-service.

I decided to go all teenage and keep a log of what happened there. I actually wanted to bring a laptop for that purpose, but chickened out at the last moment. The army gets all paranoid about electronic equipment, you see. How are they to know that your automated chicken plucker isn't a secret assassination device, and such. So it was all typed on my phone, and I'm pretty impressed with myself that it spans almost 14,000 words. That's a lot of bollocks to talk, and I am apparently capable of it. No wonder I'm single.

So yes, do enjoy, however much you can enjoy the thoughts of one man on re-service for three weeks.

16 September
After far too much fear-mongering in Singapore, we're in Sai Yok camp, Thailand, at last. If the people in charge had their druthers, we'd have been leashed at the airport. Do not this. Must not that.

Granted, I agree you can't just throw a hundred idiots together and expect them to behave, but some of it was a bit much. We were supposed to wear collared shirts at the airport, because you can't possibly look neat without a collar. And no boots, because we weren't supposed to alert the public that there was an army presence at the airport. Look, a hundred twenty-somethings, all male, all queueing at the same gate is going to attract attention. Especially when they start getting yelled at to, 'Form up into packet level and look for your IC.'

After some serious synchronised ageing, we eventually got on the plane a little after midnight. I got a window seat, which meant I got to mentally go, 'Whee! I'm going to die!' as the plane took off. I've never been great with flying, seeing as how I do so little of it. Very similar to how I am with sex, hmmm.

The flight was only two hours, but got seriously uncomfortable after the first half hour. The air was thin, the pressure kept trying to implode my head and it was fucking freezing. I remembered then, the previous trip with the army, six years ago. I think it might have been my first flight ever, and I really did think I was going to die, and panicked. People walking around normally confused me. Didn't they realise we were all going to die? I'm a little better now. Less, 'I'm going to die!' and more, 'This is really piss-offing.'

We reached the Bangkok airport at something like 2am, Thai time. Did you know not all airports are 24 hours? You probably do. I had no idea, and it was interesting, being in a dark, deserted airport that serves a rather busy city in the day. Interesting for about ten minutes. The only things to see were the men I would be seeing for the next two weeks. And probably naked, at the showers. I shuddered,even though it was not cold.

Eventually, we got shunted into buses for the four-hour drive to the camp. Most of the bus ride was uncomfortable sleep punctuated with flashes of irritation, every time I just managed to fall asleep and the bus went over a huge bump. The seats were tiny, and I ended up inadvertently snuggling up to the guy next to me. We woke at the same time, practically in each other's arms. We solemnly said nothing to each other.

Finally, the camp. After getting shouted at a little bit, we picked up our bags and got assigned beds. The barracks looked, smelled, sounded and worked like a piece of shit built sixty years ago out of wood. Yay, 2cm foam mattresses. Yay, heavily vandalised metal lockers that have no working parts. Aha, I hear you say, a locker has no working parts. Lockers are supposed to have doors, maybe a shelf, yes? Not these. They were the equivalent of an elderly person in a poor country. Broken too many times and mended badly with duct tape.

There was a parade. It was thousands of men standing in the same hall, shuffling their feet on command. After the requisite number of well-intentioned buzzwords were droned at us in a speech from some really important person, we were allowed to leave.

Yay, canteen. This is the centre of the camp, it seems. It has food that is not crap and inexpensive. Touristy stuff that we couldn't give a shit about in Singapore but cannot resist now. Internet cafes that sometimes work. And Thai girls who flirt on demand so you buy their food. Sometimes, it's attractive and effective. The other times, you realise with horror that it's a man with long hair.

We did some actual army work, the boys and I. And then rewarded ourselves by returning to the canteen and eating and drinking ourselves stupid.

So here I lie on my 2cm mattress, having had to listen to just about everyone else kiss their girlfriends good night. 'No, you hang up! Hee hee!' And I am sleeping in a room with fifty men. And I have to wake at six tomorrow morning. It is depressing. Perhaps I will spend the rest of my money on tom yam soup tomorrow and hope for a peaceful, sour death from overdose.

Well, this will probably be the longest log for this trip. Hopefully, not the last.

17 September
The night was cold. I know this because I was dragged, slowly but inevitably awake, by the sensation of having to pee like a motherfucker.

It was a Bad Move, albeit involuntary. The thing with nice rustic places like this camp is, when it's 2am in the morning, it is creepy as shit. Just to make a point, the creepiest images surfaced in my mind, from all the horror movies I had the stupidity to watch. Have you any idea what it feels like to be at a urinal, certain that the head of that little boy from Ju-On was going to pop around the corner?

I made it back to bed, only tripping over five things in the dark. And then I had to contend with Adrian's snoring. Oh, people snore, get over it, I hear you say. His snoring is of a special calibre. If snoring indicated penis size, he would have to keep it coiled around his waist. It sounds like someone trying to kill a pig with a chainsaw.

We're just back from breakfast, which was shit. And he's doing it again. But it is all right when I'm not trying to sleep. Kind of like murderous background muzak.

Well, that was a fair bit for it being 8.30am. About weather, toiletry habits and snoring. You content genius, Tim. Let's see what you can come up with later.

Right. Fifteen hours later, there remains nothing noteworthy. A lot of work was done today, in the face of bureacracy. There is this to be said - if we do go to war, Singapore will probably roll over and die. The bulk of our defense seems to be the reservice troops. People like me, except less awesome. People who don't want to be here, but still try to do a good job. Except the army actually makes it hard for us to do that.

Going by general sentiment, hearsay and drawn conclusions - ten retarded people do the planning for the whole army. We had a compulsory form to fill out a few days ago, in Singapore. Apparently the army's hired some consultant for what must be a lot of money, and one of his ideas is forms to ask you what you hope to learn from this exercise, why, and what obstacles stand in the way.

It's really, really stupid. If you're lucky, you're dealing with a lot of people who don't speak English very well, don't give a fuck about it, but still want to finish well, and finish quickly. If you're not, you're dealing with a lot of people who don't speak English very well, don't give a fuck in general, and who will stab your ass outside of camp if you blink the wrong way.

You are giving them learning goal forms to fill out. While refusing to grant essential equipment to troopers with a deadline closer than your testicles to your buttocks. You are not doing well.

Stuff got done, nonetheless. Some table banging necessary. We worked in 40 degree weather. I wake in five hours. I can't sleep naked, mostly because mosquitoes will bite my unmentionables. It is only the second day in Thailand. And I miss...well, things. And people I really shouldn't.

I want my money back.

18 September
4.30am
Finally remembering to put timestamps on these things. It is Not Nice. Not that I've never been awake at this hour, but it's not usually due to: 1. Mosquitoes. 2. Pee. 3. Snoring.

The mosquitoes here must be starved. They bite every exposed surface possible, and then some. I'm wrapped up in a blanket, with an army tee on. They've got my hands and face, fine. But there's a bite on my chest. I have an image of a desperate mosquito repeatedly trying to stab me through a layer of blanket and army tee, screaming, 'COMME ON BAYBEH, MOMMA'S GOTTA EAT!' Well done, mosquito. You'll excuse me for wishing you and your unborn children die in a fire.

Getting up in the middle of the night to have a pee shouldn't normally be an obstacle to continued restful sleep. Here, though, you first have to pass the dexterity test to determine if you're worthy.

Navigate some 10m of narrow walkway in the dark, strewn with new obstacles every day. Then down a long flight of stairs and another 20m to the toilet. Pee while hoping desperately that there are no mummy/little girl combo ghost teams waiting to kill you or laugh at your small penis. And then up the stairs, and through the walkway, back to bed. Congratulations, you have managed to pee successfully, and are now as awake as fuck.

What happens if you fail the test? Quite likely, you trip along the dark narrow walkway and fall onto a comatose person, dragging whatever you can get a hold of with you while yelling, 'OHSHIT OHSHIT!' The guy you fell on, who doesn't know what the fuck, starts yelling, 'OHSHIT OHSHIT!' as well, flailing wildly and knocking, indeed, shit over. The lights come on and the seventy men you've just wakened stare at you in the arms of another man, your face inches from his. Congratulations, not only have you failed to pee, you also look like you just tried to buttsex someone.

Given that all went well, and you didn't do the buttsex fall, you now want to get back to sleep, yes? That's where Adrian comes in. I swear the little bastard times it. Every time you're just about to drift off into sweet, sweet slumber, the screams of a dying pig slice into your consciousness.

And so it is, that at 4.30am, in a bunk in Thailand, I have done more writing than I do in a month, usually. I will now proceed to read off my phone while crying softly to myself. Let's see what happens later in the day.

...die, Adrian. Please?

10.40pm
Not very much happened, army-wise. Well, except for the usual inefficiency and incompetence in the supposed upper ranks that permeate this organisation. Shamelessly quoting myself, you can't treat us like the indentured slaves we were back in active service. We're reservists now, back but for a few weeks a year. We can and will get pissed off.

At the canteen this morning, I was shopping for earplugs when I noticed a shopkeeper in distress. The shop shuttered-gate thing couldn't fully open. I walk over and offer to help, and after letting me stew in my own fetid juices for a bit, the two mates I was with came over as well.

After much grunting, hammering and screw...drivering, success!! We started going off, and one of the keepers said another had gone to buy Coke to thank us. We gallantly refused, but were overpowered by sheer force of hospitality. And so we strode off, toting two antennae, an oversized wire drum and three cans of Coke. Only in Thailand.

Tonight, I begin my battle vs mosquitoes. I'm sleeping in a fresh set of uniform, sleeves down. Yes, army jammies. And I'm sleeping under a mosquito net - a sort of fine gauze pyramid you stretch over your bed. Cuts airflow by 50% and makes you feel like a princess. Whether or not it has any effect on mosquitoes remains to be seen. I may just keep using it for the princess thing.

Tomorrow, the engineers are going to blow stuff up. Like, for srs, with plastic explosive and stuff. And I'm going to be there, with my karma, next to a shit ton of the stuff.

If I do not make it, please feed my dog and do not smack him too much. He can't help being retarded.

19 September
10am
Hot. Hungry. We're in some patch of Thai wilderness, waiting for everything to be set up so things can go boom. Have been for the past two hours. Presumably, stuff is going on inside there. I should not bemoan my lot, which is an idle one.

Something about being here makes you eat more, I think. I don't usually get hungry this quickly. Then again, it may have to do with the fact that breakfast was a large ladle of noodles fried in deer excrement. I worry that I've gone posh, and a meal that I do not enjoy somehow does not count. Maybe I could go over to the villagers near by and barter for food with...jokes they will not understand. Well, so much for that idea.

It is getting hotter. I'm not even supposed to have my phone with me here, because it apparently may make things go boom. I tried telling them only the iPhone 4 has that effect, mostly on women, but I got yelled at. I also got yelled at for smoking. It was the no-reply-required type of yelling, the basic, 'Fuck you!!' model.

The idea behind the yelling is that there are things that go boom nearby. But the things that go boom are not even within sight. You're allowed to smoke just outside petrol stations, where you can do some real damage. Also, the Thai soldiers are smoking, but the Singapore army will not touch them, literally, if they can at all help it.

If it's safe enough for some people to smoke but not others, one can only conclude that the yelling is less about safety and more about the size of the yeller's penis. I wonder how much I would have to pay one of the untouchable Thai soldiers to go up to that surly old piece and shit and pimpslap him across the face with an old fish.

Right. Now to find a quiet spot to pee. It is pretty much the only legal entertainment here. Well, and apparently discussing football, which the three boys here are doing. I do not Get It, and hope they do not steal my seat. Else I may have to pee on it to save my spot.

A moped has just pulled in, with a mother and son village team on it. 'Cold drink, ice cream, coconut,' she declared. I got a bottle of coffee which was 50% sugar, 45% water. Still nice to have a cold drink.

Also, one of the rare non-fuckhead warrant officers just trot up on foot. Apparently, he has a Thai wife, and speaks the language fluently. The first thing he did was to hop onto one of the Thai trooper's hammock and start humping him from behind. Then he chatted everyone up and started showing them pictures of his Thai wife on his mobile phone while smoking a cigarette. Yes, all at the same place where I get in shit for doing those things.

But it is fine. He's a nice, fun chap, and prolly earned all the perks he enjoys. I am jealous - I'd like to be able to talk to the Thais too. Ah, language.

10.45pm
Well, that was hectic. In a watching-a-snail-die kind of way, where things are happening towards an eventual goal, but ever so slowly. Let's see if I can keep things in order.

Mister Fuckyou made his second appearance. He came up to our little posse and asked who the one smoking was. Wondering just how much fuckyou he wanted to milk out of one cigarette, I raised my hand. No fuckyous. Apparently he wanted to explain that it was necessary for him to do that, and wanted me to understand. 'We must show them (the Thais, presumably) that we are not like that, that we have discipline.' Hey, he's not such a bad chap after all, I thought.

Nope, he was a right fucker. Right after that, his warrant officers and officer friends arrived, and smoked cigarettes all over the place, most very much nearer the explosives than I was. And he was quite happily discussing cures for erectile dysfunction or something, right next to them. Penis over safety theory proved.

And you know, it wouldn't have been so bad, had he not then had the audacity to tell a Thai soldier to put his cigarette out. The sad thing is, most rankers in the army tend to behave like this, rather than the happening hammock humper. Do what I say, not what I FUCKYOU.

The actual blowing up of stuff happened after that. I was hoping to be standing well back looking at chicken shrapnel fly by. No such luck. We were all stuffed into this concrete bunker thing. It's like an upside-down shoebox with the front bit cut out. Except concrete. And there we hung out, with helmets on and fingers in our ears.

So no, no mushroom cloud, no comically dead chicken with Xs for eyes sailing through the air. There was a big bang, though. A series of big bangs, actually - they may even have had enough plastic explosive to finally pop the stick out of Mr Fuckyou's ass. They were grand bangs, with little shockwaves through the ground and everything. But not really worth staying up for, especially when you're facing the bangs buttocks-first, in a concrete shoebox, with a helmet on and fingers in your ears. For close to an hour, in the midday Thai sun.

Before we were allowed to leave the area, we had to do the standard declaration and pat-down thing. It goes, 'I, NRIC rank and name, hereby declare that I do not have any RAI, fireworks or ammunition in my possession, sir.' We repeat after an officer, you see. And then I wondered, in this chant I've been repeating for years, what the hell is RAI? I asked the people around me, and no one knew. I came up with a few possibilities.

Really Axplosive Item? Sounds like a stretch, but this is the same army that pronounces 'strap', 'stripe'. And spells garters, 'gutters'. Or perhaps I could raise my hand and declare Adrian an RAI. 'Yes sir! Adrian is a Really Annoying Item, especially at night. Please take him away. Finally, it could be Really Awesome Item. Which would give me a clean slate. I never have any really awesome items to declare.

In any case, we left the exploded area soon after. Everyone had sunburn - the Thai sun is brutal, and we're all on malaria pills, which apparently increase your sensitivity to sun. It was the pretty kind of sunburn too, the kind that looks like you dashed blusher across the middle of your face. With a quick costume change, we could have gone from mean green soldiers to the starring cast of My Fair Lady.

Some tedious work later, we finally got to hit the canteen to stuff fase. I stuffed mine so massively I worry that I'll have to take a dump in the forest when we're out tomorrow, and in so doing, propel myself by sheer force of excretion over a cliff. These are real dangers, my friend.

The duders wanted to LAN it up after that. I was a little reluctant - it'd been a long time since I did any sort of gaming, and I don't like to suck. We played DotA, an updated version with which I was unfamiliar, four of us against the CPU. Lo and behold, I did not suck! It's hard to suck with Keeper of the Light, anyway. And though the AI was decent, you'd still need to have the intelligence of a Down's turkey to even come close to losing.

Tomorrow noon, we go out to the jungle. And stay there overnight. See, if you were camping it might be fun. When you're in the army, it's just shit. My old skills of assembling a passable sleeping surface in a confined space will be put to the test. Signallers sleep at the back of the Landrover, you see. Well, if we're lucky. And the available sleeping area is like the plank that friendly pirates make people take walks on, except shorter. You have to fool your body into thinking there is more space so it will go to sleep. And just when you're drifting off, it's likely someone will come and yell at you in an urgent voice. The effect is much like Adrian's snoring, but with words instead of the wail of a dying pig.

We're not supposed to bring our phones out with us to the jungle, as there are going to be explosives again, and phones might set them off. Maybe I should make a trip to the cybercafe tomorrow to reasearch this. I'm pretty sure whoever came up with the rule was watching too many spy movies. But you know what? Even if I presented a thirty-page thesis, 'Phones Do Not Make Things Go Boom, Planes Do. The Words Look Similar But Phones And Planes Are Not The Same', they still wouldn't change their minds. And you'll still get the very same piece of shit who told you not to bring your phone talking into his, right next to the pewpew. Do as I say, not as I do.

Well, maybe I'll leave my phone. When it rains in Thailand, it does not fuck around. Even keeping it snugly between my butt cheeks would not keep it dry - and I would walk funny.

We see how, lah.

20 September
3.30pm
That's the morning gone then. There was much to do in a short time, one of which was giving the medics a crash course on how to operate signal equipment. 'Press this butan. Talk. Talk finish, leggo butan.'

And as you can see, I did bring my phone with me into the jungle. I think it's one of those things - I just want something with a screen and butanz to press. Well, maybe not during sex, though it's very similar. You have something stimulating to monitor, and butanz to press. If you press butanz in right combination, sometimes can execute hadouken.

I slept like a retarded baby last night, with occasional twitches and odd noises, but soundly. The mosquito net appears effective, although that could be a ploy on their part to lure me into a false sense of security. On my last night here, they will swarm and descend upon me like the vegeance of people who get passed over for promotion, and I will be sucked unto nothing but a dry, barren husk. It might happen. The bastards bite my bottom when I poo. Anything that bites bottoms when they are in use is capable of great evil.

Nonetheless, they left me alone last night. And so did my bladder, which normally has a vendetta against me. I slept at eleven and woke a little past seven, feeling quite refreshed. Any more of this decent, wholesome hours shit and I'll have to start injecting heroin just so I don't turn into a...person.

So we're done being busy for a little bit, and are now just slow-cooking in the Thailand heat. Apparently it's not even the hottest time of year - that's in June. That's the time you can fry an egg by just cracking it into the pan and waving it through the air.

And later on, after we're all medium-rare, it will get freezing. I think it's wonderful that Thailand can be the Land of Smiles despite this. Well done, Thai people. If Singaporeans populated this place, it would be known and the Land of Chaocheebye. Like, when tourists visit and ask us how the place is: 'Chaocheebye.'

With a smile, of course.

7pm
We got everything done up. Lots of coordination, and lifting of heavy stuff involved. And then, rain. With lightning. That's Category 1 weather in army vernacular, which means we rip up most of the work and go cower in the truck because otherwise we might get hit by lightning. You can't make this shit up. The Thais were laughing at us, apparently. Sky go boom, Singapore army go poof.

And so I've been sitting in this tonner truck with a bunch of blokes for a few hours. We just ate dinner by electric-lantern light. I do not remember the last experience I had that was equal parts surreal and depressing like this.

We're going to sit here until the bad scary lightning goes away, and then go outside and desperately try to regain some respect from the Thai army. We may have to resort to outright bribery, as they have very little English. 'I give you this goat, you not tell people we hide from big sky bang. Ok?'

Now to find a nearby goat that's for sale.

21 September
5am
It is 5am and I have just eaten a tuna sandwich.

I have had about three hours of sleep, two on a bench in the tonner truck and fitful intervals that add up to about one, seated on a bench with my head on my arms, on the table.

My arm went numb five times because of the crushing weight of the intellect in my head. I am roughly as filthy as a pig who's shat himself. And during my only decent bit of sleep, mosquitoes descended and attempted to kill me by draining my lifeforce through my hands, the only other exposed surface. I guess they wanted to bite fase, but gasp, too ugly.

But it is all ok, because I have just eaten a tuna sandwich. I've always liked tuna sandwiches, but this one was different. It came pre-packed, in a plastic bag, and it was filled with tuna and awesome.

How do the Thais do it? Why is it that all the heavily-marketed, mass-produced baked goods in Singapore taste mediocre at best, and the Thais can produce Fantabulous in a 10x10cm bag? Maybe this is the reason they're so friendly, and smile so much: they have legal heroin-equivalent stimulus readily available, yours for only 10 baht. All that tom yam, pineapple rice and phad thai is just a cover for their true national dish - awesome tuna sandwiches. It was probably a logistical error that resulted in them being delivered here; they were meant for their own Thai troops. And now that I know their secret, I can never leave.

Sorry, I did wax on a bit. The sandwich was the best thing that's happened the past day. Maybe even since I landed in Thailand. In addition to no sleep and mosquitoes, self-important pricks saw fit to come into this HQ tent last night and get in everyone's way while waving their penises around. Pick on this. Brag about that. Turn a 20-second brief into a 40-minute one with constant repetition.

I don't get that. You make your points, speaking slowly if you have to. At the end of it, you do a quick summary. Everyone gets it, more time to do stuff. Is it so hard?

The penis-wavers weren't from this company, mind. Here, they're mostly nice, bland at best. The penis-wavers are the army regulars, here to supervise and make long speeches, point out stupid, petty faults and shout at people who aren't officers.

I'm a little harsh there. A lot of them are nice, but the pricks are the kind of people you wish to be raped by a team of transvestite midgets. And they're all cast from the same mould. You see these people in daily life as well. They need to identify the gene responsible for that behaviour and come up with a vaccination for it. 'So you're in your third trimester, ma'am? We'll need to administer the Anti-Asshole Vaccine now, you'll remember that from your first talk with the doctor. Yes, it's a suppository. Ah yes, ha ha, it's most ironic. We get that a lot. Now if you'd just bend over...'

But yes, the tuna sandwiches. I now have ten of them in my field pack. But what if I'm wrong? What if it's just the misery of being pushed around in the jungle that made them taste so good? Will I find my tuna sandwich, back in daily life?

I think that's everyone's goal, the Tuna Sandwich of Awesome that always tastes good. But maybe the TsoA is just legend, and does not exist. Maybe nothing can taste that good forever.

7.30am
We have moved from our previous base to the base of a hill where they are to make things go boom. The signallers have been put to use as sentries. I get to stay here till something like 5pm, telling the mobile vendors and their children to sod off. In a nice way, of course.

The fear-mongering of the army was shown at its best just now. After a prep talk last night stating we were absolutely, under no conditions to bring our mobile phones out, the same officer who said it asked for our Thai phone numbers just now. Upon seeing that we had switched them off, he said there was no need.

Not that I've been sneaky sneaky about it either. Secure in the knowledge that army signal sets may sometimes actually work, I got clearance for Signals to bring ours. It's just the disparity that bothers me.

It's like a doctor saying to a group that they'll die if they wear cashmere, and then later confessing to a select few that, actually, the worst that could happen is a mild rash. At the next group meeting, the selects turn up in stylish cashmere, catch the eye of the hot nurses and go home with them for wine and sex. The others are, of course, outraged. The doctor shrugs and tells them it's for their own safety. I come up with strange analogies. But I insist that they work.

Oh snap, a dog just trot in sheepishly. And my dog-wrestling skills do not yet extend to those that stand half my height, on all fours.

We can only hope dog does not go boom.

10am
Got a bit of sleep in the back of this Landrover. It hasn't been that long, but here are some more illustrations of the effects of power on different people.

I sudden had another bloke join the radio net. He declared himself a sentry, and wanted to do a radio check. From tone of voice and incompetence with signal protocol, you could tell this was An Officer.

One sentry responded to his check with, 'Radio check ok, out.' The response was swift from this prick. 'Soldier. You dun Out.'

Out is the equivalent of, 'I have nothing further for you.' But there's a penis thing where you're not supposed to Out a superior officer, because their pride gets all butthurt. The prick officers, on the other hand, simply say whatever they want. This is not effective communication.

'Ok that's fine and...the enemy is here! Get the guns! Nothing further, out.'

'Dun you daire owt me, soldier!! Soldier!! U come bak!!'

I can see that happening, very clearly. This particular prick officer is a Major, and seems to have got to that rank by credit of being able to breathe. The transformation is remarkable. It's like watching a pile of shit...grow bigger.
Mr Fuckyou also made an appearance, pulling up in a rover. While we tried to get approval for his entry, he scowled, and when we went over again to ask him what his role was, he demanded to know why we didn't ask him to begin with, and drove off in a huff. Mr Fuckyou is nearly the highest rank an NCO can hit.

Finally, I stopped yet another rover. The vehicle commander beams. I politely ask who he is, and he looks a little startled, but tells me he's Colonel Suchsuch, and that he was the exercise conductor. Whee, I just casually stopped someone who's a step away from being a general. Very in keeping with my karma.

I tell him I can't let him in without approval, and he nods, sure, no problem. And then I can't reach the person with the approval stick, and he just hangs out with my sentry mate, Ben. After what would have been well past the fuckyou threshold for the other pricks, I aplogise, tell him I'll keep trying to reach the approval stick person. Sure, no problem, once again.

And then stuff blew up, and it was apparent why I couldn't reach the right person. He was busy supervising stuff getting blown up. I hop down and light a cigarette, since we had to wait for the whole series of explosions to end. It was a bit of a test on my part, I guess. Yeap, all he said was, 'Make sure you're away from the vehicle while you're smoking.'

He leaves, saying that since he'd missed it, he'd come back later for the next one, and there was no need to bother anyone now. And he thanked us, and waved as he left. Ben and I were all aww. He was a good looking chap, too.

He didn't look a day past thirty-five, and he was in great shape. Definitely an Untouchable - looks good, sounds good, well established and...nice. Asshole. I mean that in a good way.

Maybe the prick behaviour from the others are a simple case of metaphorical penis envy. It's hard to look at yourself and feel good, after you see people like that.

Scratch that, it's all-round penis envy. I'm sure that Colonel's well hung, to boot. And that when he finishes his business in Thailand, he'll go back to his mansion where his supermodel/doctor wife and his millionaire-at-age-20 entrepreneur son and humanitarian rights leader daughter.

And there will be an incestuous orgy. There's bound to be. Nobody can be that perfect without a little secret they keep hidden from the world.

11.15am
Gods. It was only a second, but I clearly saw two flies have sex on my leg. Yes, doggy style, and she was twitching her wings in presumed ecstasy.

I mean, I guess I always knew it at the back of my head, but it's definitely a new low to see flies getting more action than me.

1.30pm
The mobile vendors started a small fire to burn up their used plastic cups. Being bored shitless, I went to throw wood on it. My antics attracted Ben, and Aaron, a medic the signallers have adopted. It's amazing how entertaining a fire can be.

A Thai driver also came over for a look, and I mimed warming my hands at the fire. He blinked. 'Hot!' he said, pointing up at the sky. We chuckled, and he went off to tell his friend about crazy Singaporean boys who build fires to warm themselves in the 2000-degree noon sun.

We heard a rover coming out of the Boomz area, and scurried back to our own rover to whistle nonchalantly. It was Mr Fuckyou. Sure enough, he stopped at the fire and got out. 'Who started this fire? Cannot be you guys right?' Aaron was able to answer confidently that we did not start the fire. So we helped put it out. And Mr Fuckyou was so amused at what he termed, 'firefighting with water-bottles', that we had to wait for him to take his camera out for a picture.

Then we had to sit through quite a bit of, 'There was one time when...' with him. It was decently amusing, and showed a slightly lighter side of him. Underneath that gruff, tough exterior, there was a cranky old man underneath. Nothing wrong with that - I'll prolly be a cranky old man myself. The talk ended with penis carvings and the pixellation of genitals in Japanese porn. Really. Just so you know.

The colonel came again, just. This time, a little less patient. Still smiled when he came in, but when I couldn't reach approval people again, he got out of the car and started talking about backup processes, how there must always be a flow, and such. Then he stopped himself, because he realized it was Not My Fault.

Good thing the right person came back just then, and he was cleared for entry. He started talking about processes again for a bit, and I told him that actually, it was only the two times he came by that I couldn't get people. Which was true, mind. I didn't think it necessary to explain about my karma. It seemed to mollify him, and he said something about Murphy's Law, except I think he called it the rule of Murphy or something. I bit my tongue. I'd just barely escaped a chiding from a colonel with the equivalent of, 'Look, a flying pig!' Correcting him at this point would be like getting a forced castration, ending up merely circumsized, then saying, 'Nya nya you missed.'

Ooh, Mr Dun Out Me just barged into the boom area, after I told him I couldn't get to the approval people. No boom yet, but we can always hope.

5pm
Dragonflies fill the evening sky
I know not why
Insect orgy?

9.45pm
Overheard conversation can be amusing. In the next bed, a signaller is discussing an academic question about magnets with his wife-to-be. Punctuation is smoochy noises. A couple beds down, they are discussing foot fungus, and how one guy has it so bad it hurts and itches at the same time. Late last night in the jungle, I heard, 'I think the thing about him is, he finds you attractive.' A serious discussion between two men.

There's a lot of empty conversation floating around. We all feign interest, ask questions, make attempts at jokes. Are we really a social species, then?

Being an awkward child, it was easier to avoid strange company and read something. This lifted a little with age, and I am now almost well-adjusted. It's become a matter of fact to try to read which buttons to push, and what's likely to work, and then apply pressure. You don't make friends that way, though.

One can feel alone sometimes, despite being connected to the internet and hence, the civilised world. Banter is easier to initiate on the internet, but the end result is much the same as IRL. You know you're both doing it just to pass the time, and not to seem standoffish. You might even enjoy it, for a little bit, until the awkward pause that no one can fill. But of course, you have options, a hundred little reasons to excuse yourself. And by the time you get back, more fillers would have presented themselves. The loo was nice. The food's arriving, I can't wait. Check out that girl/guy. While you were away, I licked your spoon.

Well, maybe not the last one. I don't actually tell anyone when I do that.

No, I don't have a point.

22 September
10pm
We woke up this morning with some alarm. Apparently, military police were going to come inspect our bunks, because we were handling explosives, and might have smuggled some back to blow up the neighbour's cat with. They take no chances when it comes to pewpew.

Of course, the big worry was that pretty much all of us are contravening the restriction on phones with cameras, a bloody annoying ruling. And so, the whole lot of us put our phones into little bags and tossed them into a box, which was then hidden. If you'd just read that last sentence on its own, you'd be forgiven for thinking it was a day in the life of someone in boarding school.

I wrote a little earlier about the comfort that something with butanz and a screen brings me - but even I had no idea how much. As it stands, it's a little weird, being unable to contact anyone in Singapore. Not that I do a lot of that to begin with, but the option was always there.

With a Thai SIM in this phone, any call or text is bad news, because only army people have this number. But it was still nice to have. I read off it, write on it, and if I feel sappy, I can read through my old texts. And then this morning, suddenly no more.

We didn't have that much to do, though, and ended up spending the day at the cybercafe at the canteen, playing DotA and Counter-Strike. Replacement butanz and screens, you see. It was fun, although I felt really retarded at using the pewter after we were done. Meh, I used to be decent at games.

Oh, and the military police didn't come, after all. My phone has a scratch on the screen now, all for nothing. There's still a chance they could come at 2am, kick open the doors and drag everyone off the beds. 'Get down, motherfucker! Camera phone eh, you...you...pervert! You're going to pay for that!' And then we blow them up with our smuggled explosives.

The highlight of today was, I took a shit so big, I clogged the toilet. The ones here don't have Gale Force 5 flushes like back home, so they're actually fairly easy to clog. Still, I was impressed, when I looked at the size of the thing. It very nicely illustrated why the phrase, 'full of shit' is derogatory. It was a strange medley of disgust and pride that I felt.

Especially when I had to break it up with a stick.

10.30pm
I nearly overheard what's happening in Naruto Shippuuden, walking downstairs for a smoke. Bastards.

23 September
1pm
Stuff to do, stuff got done. Now it looks like we're going to spend the day on LAN again, what with it being our last hurrah before three days in the jungle.

I am broke. I can't remember how much money I brought over here either. I think I had 4,000 baht to begin with, which is a little less than two hundred dollars. I have 120 baht now, and will toss another hundred dollars into the kitty.

5.15pm
Well, there goes the afternoon. Four games or so of DotA, all with people. Who knew it was such a universal language? We ended up playing with our exercise evaluaters. Perhaps winning most of the games was not a good idea. No credit to me though, I'm still five flavours of suck.

There is, in the bin downstairs, a pair of what looks suspiciously like white panties. I fear even my own innsatiable curosity will not suffice to tempt closer examination. Mystery number 2: of all the clothes I washed, only this vest turned out smelling like ass. I do not think I have pissed off anyone in this camp. Not enough for them to defile my clothes, anyway. Ass-singlet will have to remain a mystery.

10.30pm
Everyone is a-scurrying, packing this and prepping that for the move-out tomorrow. With fanfare like an incontinent racoon peeing itself, tomorrow will be It.

Your seventh year of re-service, you see, seems to be your evaluation year. You go for a big fuck-off exercise, and people who tend to be not worth the air they consume will observe you, and pass judgement. If you do well, your last three years will be easier. Not-so-well and those years will be tougher. If you accidentally blow up a villager's goat, the whole company must bend over and take it up the ass from Motumbo, the African wonder. He is already standing by.

The blokes are already counting the days. We leave tomorrow afternoon and come back Monday evening. After that it's cleaning up and returning the equipment, a dinner with dancing transvestites, and an Educational Tour, where NSmen invade town, leer at women and buy shit. And then we go home. We're all going to get dumped at the airport at something like 2am, with our handcarry and our kitbags. Total size and weight: one small pony. Ways to get home that don't cost you your firstborn child: none. Still, no one's going to complain at this point. I may kiss the ground. Not because I like Singapore very much, but because life in rural Thailand is shit. Maybe I could get away with kissing and SIA stewardess. You think?

I wonder if Goat misses me. It's the thing with retarded friendly dogs. Even with Hitler, they go apeshit happy, jumping up and down and saying, 'AI AM SO FUCKING HAPPY TO SEE YOO YOO YOO OMFG!!' He'll probably have no idea who I am until I smack him for something. And then he'll do the 'oh it is you wai you do this 2 me i only eat carpet not wrong,' look, with the moist eyes thing. He is very good at the moist eyes thing. Sometimes I smack him for no reason, just so I can learn from him.

For better or for worse, we head out tomorrow. It has been surprisingly decent here so far, given the circumstances. I will try not to get bitten by a yet-undiscovered species of venomous spider. Given my karma, it won't even kill me, just give me life-long halitosis, hair loss and an even smaller penis, or something.

That would be pretty wicked venom, actually. Slow-acting, but guaranteed to make the victim kill himself.

24 September
11.30am
Perhaps one of the few good things about the army is how it allows you to keep bits of your youth. Platoon One just did a little cheer thing, downstairs, with the platoon sergeant leading and some thirty men roaring a generally positive response. These are all men either pushing thirty or denying it. Try to get that sort of reaction out of them in daily life and they'll probably tell you to go fuck spider.

There is a kitty that has decided we probably will not try to eat it. It has taken up residence here, usually crouched at some corner, looking pathetic. The poor creature is skin and bones. I tried feeding it a packet of combat rations, and all it did was lick it a bit. Its teeth look weird and sparse, and I never saw it take a bite. I hope it will be ok, maybe wait for cars to run over snails for it to lap up.

7.30pm
There has been a lot of work done. I am quite knackered, which is a polite way of saying near death. I have drunk and sweat roughly five litres, and I am soaked in my own excrement. Well fine, the last bit was a bit melodramatic, but sweat is an excrement.

It was the hole digging that did it. Everything else seemed fairly sunshine and butterflies in comparison. The hole, it is called a shellscrape. A coffin-hole thing that has to fit you inside so your back is level with the ground. This is for when fiery death rains from the skies with artillery bombardment. This is the best they could come up with for defense against artillery: self-burial.

And this is hardly scratching the surface of the first night. And it looks like rain, so there will be Mud. And it's roughly 1 2/3 holes dug, 5 1/3 to go.

I am not a happy trooper.

25 September
12.30am
With some expert help from Andy, the company sergeant major, we now have five shellscrapes. Andy attacked the ground viciously and methodically, like it had kidnapped his family and left the cap off the toothpaste. Our uniforms are beginning to dry, which is a relief. In doing so, they are also beginning to smell, which is not so much a relief. By tomorrow afternoon, all camouflage will be rendered useless. An enemy soldier who knows what he's doing can just creep around and sniff out the combined stink of 117 men.

So far, there are no mosquitoes, except for the one I killed. I suspect being this far out in the Thai wilderness has bred them for intelligence. You only bite the snoring ones if you want to survive. The one I killed was probably a bit Down's.

The storemen are outside doing sentry duty. They are supposed to challenge people who want to enter and ask them for the day's password. So far, they have challenged...no people, and are currently talking about X-men, and making pewpew noises. And now, about cutting off limbs of people who offend them. I have every confidence they'll do it. They have that reclusive, doesn't fit it anywhere, face like a paedophile schoolteacher thing going for them. Oh, these are the same two that were talking about, '...he finds you attractive.' Creepy. I must not tell them where I live.

Neo will be back in an hour to take over...signaller duty. And then I can sleep on three planks again. Joy.

10am
You'd think after sleeping about two hours' worth on planks and at the table, with mosquitoes having formed the Mobile Itch Squad, target: me, I'd be dying for another rest. And you would be right.

The second shift change was at 7.30am. I got about fifteen minutes in at the back of a rover before it got too hot. I tried to sleep, despite. But when it's willpower VS heat, heat always wins. That's why you don't take girls to cold places if you want them to take their clothes off. Not that I would know. Very few girls take their clothes off for me, except if they want them washed.

Even my subconscious appears to have low self esteem. One of the plank-bed dreams was of me being invited to a high-end club by some Untouchables. For some reason, I agreed. Once we got there, the main guy I knew plopped into a table for two with his girlfriend. And the other gorgeous guys and girls walked on, so I followed. Then they met their friends at another table and all settled in. There was no space for me.

I walked on to the loo, a little WTFed, thinking I'd just wash up and leave. Then the army guys came in. It was very important. They were there to warn me that someone I had offended had declared that he was going to kill me. That night.

No, it appears I am not that well-adjusted.

By way of experiment, I put a wad of chewed gum on top of an ant nest just now. The ants were all intrigued, but could not do the heave ho and away we go thing. I think they started trying, and then the gum surprised them by being both stuck to the ground and refreshingly minty. I will go check on it later. Perhaps if left undisturbed, the ants will build a little shrine over it and worship it like a god. All hail Blobulous, He who does not provide succor, but can be relied on to give minty fresh breath.

There was music playing earlier, quite loudly too. It was Thai umch umch. At nine in the morning, in Thai wilderness. Wai, I do not know. Perhaps the officers were practicing a Wondergirls routine to surprise us with, at the big dinner at the end of all this.

And now, ten precious minutes before the end of my break, I will head back. It is too hot to do anything. If sweating required effort, it would be too hot to sweat. I suspect I will spend mostly of the day working on ripening my odour.

12pm
I am running out of ways to describe heat, so let me take a last stab at it. This heat is like the one a midget would experience, if he were shoved whole between a sumo wrestler's buttocks, and said buttocks were then rapidly vibrated. This takes place in a sauna, and the sumo wrestler has not washed for a week. Yes, I think I've managed to capture it.

There has been a srs bznz hornet buzzing about for the past hour. Unlike the wimpy black wasps in Singapore who go to pottery class, this one is mainly yellow, which we all know is a universal colour message for danger and the Chinese. There is nothing Chinese about this wasp, except its being annoying and potentially painful. It is all danger. And it just hovered around my head for ten seconds, as if passing judgement.

Just like spies licensed to kill, I attract danger, only in a really crap, non-sexy way. Yeah, the name's Tim. Tim Danger (hornets) Drake.

7.10pm
Just like in an RPG, I have now achieved a new level of personal funk. It has gone from Unwashed Irish Beard to Forgotten Sweaty Running Socks. I wilt plants in my path. I kill small wildlife that are standing downwind. But does it work on mosquitoes? Bah. Maybe I should try chatting up girls like this. Gods know nothing else has worked so far.

I have also borrowed money and bought myself a drink and a packet of fried instant noodles. It's impressive, the tenacity of these mobile vendors that we call the ninja vans. Presumably, it allows them a fairly decent living. See, in Singapore, ten thousand goverment agencies would be on you like a retarded elephant. You'd get fined for illegal hawking on several counts and told to get a license from the goverment, with money that you didn't have even before the fines. All for trying to make a living with what is probably your last option. Go, Singapore.

The drink also allowed me to ascertain that I am not an alcoholic. A mate bought the drinks, you see, and just selected two bottles of soda at random. I was with him and saw golden beer cans floating in the ice. Resist one time. Later, I decided to change my drink and went back to ask if they had coffee. Yes, and he had to trawl for it at the bottom of the cooler. Cannot find. He grabbed a beer and nudged me. No language was necessary for the message, 'Why not try a cool, refreshing beer instead?' to come across. Only 20 baht. Resist second time, although my longing stare prolly gave me away.

See, see. Not alcoholic. Responsible adult who just happens to occasionally do stupid things. Besides, if I had taken it, he might have peeled his mask off and revealed himself to be military police.

I kinda regret my decision, though. Boo, being responsible.

People have been making fun of my Chinese.Apparently I sound funny, and they've talen to replying me in English when I speak to them in Chinese. Bad enough, that, but in addition, perhaps from lack of use, my latent stutter comes out a lot more often in Chinese. It is Not Fair. I haven't got any Chinese vocabulary to speak of, but I can speak Singapore Pidgin Chinese, dammit. Grew up on the stuff.

We're on the way to a river now, so we can cross it. Yes, that's the only purpose, and it sounds a bit retarded when plainly stated. No one says, 'Hey, I'm just going to nip down to the traffic light downstairs, cross it and come right back.' It's to give us Experience, you see. How else do you think we level up our funk. Today was valuable Experience in maintaining sanity and skin intregrity under the sun. Next is Experience is sitting on a boat while it goes vroom over river. And to come, with 1.5x Experience: walking a very long distance while carrying heavy shit.

Right. Onward to splashy splashy with crocodiles. The crossing will apparently take until morning, and that's if we're lucky. The crocodiles will have plenty of time to size us up. Hopefully, I haven't put on enough weight to look succulent yet.

26 September
8am
This entry has been brought to you by one of our medics, Cheong. Ever the willing hand to begin with, he has just shared some of his tinned tom yam tuna and bread with me. Between that and the bit of sleep I got, I feel ready to move...a small rock.

Last night was pretty brutal, mostly from the lack of sleep over two days. It started off ok - we watched this big fuck-off vehicle, about 1 1/2 double-decked buses, transform before our eyes. The vehicle was sort of ovoid-shaped, and when they drove it to the water line, the top split in half down its length and unfolder to the ground like mechanical wings. Then they drove the thing into the river. It was a boat! That one was meant for transporting the vehicles. Most of the troopers had to take little aluminum speedboats that held nine. Clambering down a steep slope to get into the boat, something solid thwacked the ground at my feet and plopped into the water. I was sure it was my phone, and was already steeling myself for the loss. As you can see, it was, instead, a rock.

The cruise down the river was pretty decent, actually. If you excuse the fact that the first question the boatman asked was, 'Where are we going?'. Followed by, 'Where is that?' We did land eventually, and thus, after a lot of larking about, began my roughly 3km walk, carrying Heavy Shit.

Every time we stopped for some reason, mosquitoes would dive in for the buffet, holding their noses. And I got a heat rash, where random points of you feel like you got stabbed with a needle laced with itching powder. Prickly Heat powder, or snake powder as we call it here, works a treat. Also, prickly heat sounds inscrutable until you experience it. Then you realise it's a very literal description.

Then, quite near our destination, one of the men had a seizure. They called it, 'fits'. I'm not sure which is correct. Fists clenched, body rigid, gasping for air and such. The evacuation was quite drama, with lots of cars and shouting and lights on the wheezing patient. You would have loved it. After he left, the platoon sergeant was sick with worry. With a little prodding from the OC, he revealed that just before they moved out, he had fucked the seizure guy. Gave him a dressing down, if you're not familiar with the word used this context, and strange images are forming in your head. Don't worry, only in Singapore. Yes, the cheap plot device of someone worried sick, because the last words he exchanged with someone who had just taken ill were harsh ones, was employed in real life.

My last awakening was to a strange officer, peering over me with the OC. His signal set had stopped working, and he was very nice and apologetic about wanting me to have a look. Dazed and confused, I prodded it with a mental stick, and everything seemed fine...aha, one switch switched to the switch the switch should not switch to. I switched it. Problem solved. Apparently the banter was that he must make it worth my while, and he fished out a pack of cigarettes. I don't do the polite refusal thing, especially not when I'm running low on fags, and the item in question happens to be fags. I felt accomplished.

And now I sit, with heat building outside but also with the occasional mitigating breeze. I am back in my rover, fed, powdered and with the task of communication. This is the way things should be. For the next day and a half, mind. If I had to do this forever, I would connect the circuit to my nipples and shock myself to death.

The OC has gone to sleep - the poor sap slept less than I did. His eyes, fairly small to begin with, were so squinty he looked in a perpetual state of constipation. You would love him, Helen. He's tall too, and works in finance. It could be a match made in...remote Thailand.

27 September
9.45am
As we draw towards the end of the exercise, there is increasingly less for me to do. There is no need for updates, reports or requests for such and such. I am left to my own devices while the OC works on a laptop and prints stuff, powered off a generator. Ah, technology. Maybe some day they'll work out a way of air-conditioning...the country.

It is too hot to sleep in the rover once again, but it is ok. Fuelled by the carrying of heavy shit, the digging of holes, the staying awake and possibly, not having shat in three days, I slept the sleep of coma patients last night, lost to the world. I woke refreshed, bushy-tailed and with no idea where the fuck I was. I so seldom leave the house for any time that I still get that, 'Wait, this isn't my room, WTF.' feeling in the mornings.

A Thai friend of my drivers came over to peer at me and went away. Then he came back and asked how many times I'd been here. 'I use see you somethingsomething,' he said. I think he meant that I look familiar. Gods, the number of times I get that. There are apparently a lot of people who look like confused goats in the world. Or maybe, this being rural Thailand, he had seen an actual confused goat that I reminded him of.

So now I sit amiably with them, watching a bridge being constructed across a small stream. It involves heavy metal and lots of mechanical lifting. ...I realise I've just described a workout at the gym, but you know what I mean. The OC is done with his stuff, and apparently we're waiting for a Thai general to come and see how we do things. We're due back in camp today - it's just a matter of when.

I hope soon. I know I say I'd try everything once, but shitting in the woods is something best left to the experts. With my karma, a scorpion will sidle up, find my balls threatening and sting them. The fact that the agony and surprise from this will result in him covered in poo will be no consolation to my great balls on fire.

Besides, the swelling of my balls would make my penis look even smaller.

1pm
Surprisingly, we're ready to go back to camp. The end of the exercise was a Thai general coming down to have a gander. It was work deja vu. One general, a posse ten deep and three people taking pictures and filming the thing.

The general himself was exactly like the VIPs back home, too. Everyone fawning over him, he himself seemed nice and smiley enough, if somewhat disinterested. He was there to watch the completion of the bridge thing. The last component wasn't working, though, so they used the crane to move shit up and down, and told him it was underway.

We drove to meet up with the rest of the blokes afterwards. I went about giving away our combabt rations to the mobile vendors, and five boxes of batteries to the Thai soldiers. The number of half-naked men in that area was palpable. Yes, I know naked men in general are palpable, but there were a lot of men who had no business being out of clothes. Palpable ne plus ultra, they were. You could feel the jiggles through the air. But ok lah, as if I'm in shape, myself.

It's now raining fairly heavily, and I am getting wet. It's the final touch to the funk of this uniform. I think I'll seal it up in a plastic bag or something, so if I have a son, I can fling it at him when he turns 18. 'This is what the army smells like, Pubert. Don't get any ideas about signing on.'

Yes, I will fight hard for my son's name to be Pubert.

28 September
7am
I think I slept at 10pm last night and now, have just woken at 7am. This is bad. There is no heroin available to counter this...normalcy. Already, I'm thinking it's not so bad; I'll have more time to wash my clothes and such. See what pushing thirty does to you, people. Fight it for as long you can.

For srs though, it was pretty easy to fall asleep last night, we were so tired. And like the knockout in the rover, it was pretty restful. I think quality of sleep counts for a lot. After a whole day asleep on a concrete floor, lying in a pool of your own vomit, you're still going to wake up and go, 'Ugh, my head. And what's thi...oh, vomit. Ugh.' That's not restful. But if you sleep for four hours and wake up in a king-sized bed next to Jessica Alba, you'd be rested as fuck. 'Mmm where am I? Who's thi...oh. Oh, I remember now. Mmm. Grope.'

Not that I'm going to hit that quality of sleep in my life, but last evening did wear us out. The heavy rain continued all the way back to camp and for hours beyond. We had to do the packing and returning of signal sets for about three hours, most of it runnning around in the rain. Once again, I had a new, full understanding of a phrase - soaked to the skin. And then we washed and headed to the canteen, where I had every intention of getting drunk. I got stuck after the first bottle of beer, bloated, and drowsy. I tell you, this ageing thing.

For the rush of work we did last night, the day is now our oyster. It should be a day of gaming and an evening of drink. But who knows, I might end up knitting instead, the rate I'm becoming Normal People.

Next thing you know, I'd have quit smoking and taken up competitive cooking.

10.30pm
The Thais really are the friendliest. On the way to the canteen, a Thai liaison I spoke to maybe once was hanging around our block. I asked what he was doing there, and he said he just wanted to say goodbye to everyone. We spoke as far as a five-word vocabulary on both sides permitted, and then he gave me a hug and told me he would miss me. Very few people give me hugs, let alone tell me they'll miss me. My dog doesn't count. Certainly a good start to the day.

We played a few games, and in between, the OC called and asked if I would be the MC for tomorrow's end-of-trip dinner. A little WTF. I'm supposed to have a paragraph to read. Hmmm. He has no idea what he's getting into, especially if I'm drunk beforehand.

After lunch, it was back to our block to settle up the last of our equipment. And guess where we ended up after? Smart. It's the only place to go, period. The alternative is to go...running. I figured I've de-toxxed enough over the course of this trip as is. So we played a few more games, and got our buttox kicked by people. All through, there were a hundred men outside, drinking beer by the case and cheering each other on.

That was fine. Everyone was in high spirits. The shit hit the fan when they started the yam sengs, though. No idea what a yam seng is? I tell you. Like how the Japanese bow and the Thai sai, you can pick out the Singaporeans if they yam seng.

Many people. Singaporean, almost always Chinese. Want to toast. One guy starts shouting YAM, dragging the syllable as long as possible. He would rather implode a lung rather than truncate the YAM, it's that bad. The rest of the many people, upon hearing the YAM, start shouting the same thing, like lemmings flinging themselves over a cliff. A hundred men shouting the word YAM as loudly and as long as they can is not a pretty sight. Then, when the YAM dies out, everyone shouts SENG, and there is much rejoicing.

Yes, it's as stupid as it sounds.

I just went downstairs on an errand, and saw the Thai liaison from this morning. He said he was invited to beer by his Singapore mates, but his Thai friend said it was not to be; that tonight was for the Singaporeans to enjoy themselves, not the Thais. I don't get it. He seemed genuinely disappointed, too. Maybe his friend just wanted to spare him the yam sengs, I don't know. But he would have been top on the list of people I'd like to have a beer with. Bah. Even in their own country, we push people around. Go, us.

He also had a stag beetle on his hand, that I got to play with, yay. Hopefully, a better memory will come along to replace my last of this trip to Thailand - a morose, really nice Thai guy whose name I don't even know, and a stag beetle crawling on my finger. Well ok, I just want the morose bit replaced. The stag beetle was pretty awesome.

Tomorrow may be amusing. Someone came in to declare that such-and-such said the Platoon 1 sergeant couldn't hold his drink, and challenged him to a drink-off tomorrow. Last man standing wins. I personally don't think it will happen, what with the big dinner. And drink-offs don't happen as neatly as they do in the movies, where they just keel over amusingly. Almost certainly, there will be vomitting. I'm torn between wanting to watch in a morbid kind of way, and wanting to avoid the shouting, cheering and testosterone flying through the air. Not being able to drink very well is a good thing, people. You spend less to get drunk. But as always, it's about penis.

I wonder what the female equivalent would be. All I can think of is...bags. Yes, they may have bag-offs. I'm not sure how they work, though. Not the bag-offs - women in general. Bag-offs are fairly simple affairs. Whoever pays the most for an inedible bit of dead cow, wins.

...with that statement, I think I've just guaranteed I'm never going to get laid.

29 September
7am
It is just as I feared. I am Waking Up Early For No Bloody Reason. It's not like I have an agenda to rush here either. You wake up early, about all you have to keep you amused is trying to time Adrian's next snore. Ah, the days of waking up at noon, blinking twice and then rolling over again.

The beetle was back again, downstairs. Some of the blokes called it a rhino beetle. They may be right - it only has one horn. Having seen it manhandled last night, I was able to pick it up fearlessly. That's when I found out it hisses. Not aggressively though, just a kind of pfft noise. Like, 'Oh sheesh, haven't you had enough? Yes, I'm a giant beetle, get over it,' contained in one noise. I put it on Adrian, but there was no reaction. Then I put it on the windowsill to try to get a picture with better light, and it flew off. Its flying off is quite impressive. It opens its wing cases first for a bit and starts flapping its wings in place. Then, as if a mechanical voice somewhere announced, 'Beetle cleared for flight,' it launches.

I should have fed it to Adrian - his mouth opens quite wide at the peak of his snore. Oh don't worry, the Thai liaison assured me it was edible.

7pm
Well, the MC script was shit. Though it was certainly fun making a few hundred men rise at my command. Stand up from their seats, that is. And I did manage to have a beer with the earnest Thai guy after all, just before dinner started. It was sweet, he told me he was really happy that we could have a drink together.

My job is done until two hours later, when I tell everyone to bug off. We are now watching scantily-clad Thai girls gyrate to umch umch umch. They're singing, but we pretty much don't care. Two weeks of no women, pretty much, for all of us. I think I spot some discreet below-pants movement at the tables.

More anon. I have gyrating Thai girls to watch.

30 September
9.30am
There was a lot of drink last night, and a lot of, 'Nonono sir you cannot go without drinking one glass with us.' It started innocently, with a bottle of whiskey being passed around. I went to get some beer for the table from the canteen, and got mildly told off, and to stop, by the OC. But he came into his own that night. After some people with sticks up their asses complained about our excessive drinking, he went and got approval from the colonel (yes, the same one), and proceeded to march in case after case of beer. The desire to spite can be a powerful thing. Between the semi-salacious dancing on stage and the free flow of alcohol, I think it's safe to say we all enjoyed ourselves. The food was crap, mind.

The OC got as close as possible to keeling over without actually doing so, and after much revelry and a-toasting in the dining hall, we headed to the canteen to...do more drinking and toasting. Shamefully, I took part in the toasting. Peer pressure and alcohol, lah. The OC gets all emo when drunk, apparently. He spent much of the night telling us, essentially, how much he fucking loved us and how great we were. Camaraderie is also free-flow with the alcohol, you see. A little earlier, he came to me and said he still remembered the article I wrote about him, after the very first exercise we had. 'Back then, I was too young, too rushed,' quoth he. 'Quite alright, you've changed now. Now, I can say I'm proud to be under your command.' Someone else put those words in my mouth, I think. Oh all right, the drama aside, he is indeed a fairly nice chap now.

After all the toasting was done, we watched someone juggle beer bottles. He was pretty good, and only broke three bottles. I walked back with one of the signallers, who was quite far gone. Once back in the bunk, concern gave way to malicious glee. Here, finally, was someone who's ended up more drunk than me. So I attempted to strip him and whipped him with a belt. The whole thing's down on video somewhere - a medic was quite happy to record the whole thing for us.

We've actually just left the Hellfire Pass Memorial Museum. I like museums, but not when it's with with hundreds of men in a space the size of a largish house. So I came back to the bus to do some writing - already, the seductive lashes of procrastination blink at me. An easy summary of the museum, just like any museum about the war: the Japanese were real fuckers at the time. But that's ok, now that they're channeling their energy into producing bizarre porn. The most interesting exhibit in the museum was a white tourist girl with rather nice breasts. And the most interesting thing I learned from that stop is that Nestle makes drinking water.

Seriously, put some thought into your supposed educational tours, assholes. I can practically see the thought process behind it. What's wholesome and educational? Museum. Ok go nearest one. Nevermind that there's hardly time to see anything or that we have something like four hundred men. Museum. Museum good.

Now, we're off to the floating market at the river Kua(?). Another place that's perfect to flood with hundreds of NSmen. We were told, very strictly, not to wear anything Army on this tour, or people will notice and there will be, presumably, Trouble. Just like the Changi Airport situation, who ELSE but the army moves men around by the hundreds? 'It's ok one. We dun wear army army thing, no one will tink got something going on.' With brilliant planning like this that relies on the presumed stupidity of other people for camouflage, do we really want the same people planning our wars?

Well, let's hope the market's good for a few laughs. If I get to see a goat swimming in the river along a boat, it would be worth having to sit through the rest of the bullshit on this trip. I don't think they transport them that way though. An accident may need to be arranged.

11.05am
The officer bluff. He said the trip to the market would probably be less than an hour. It wouldn't be so bad if the bus wasn't so shit. There is some legroom, but that's all it's got going for it. The air conditioning is terrible, and the vehicle suspension appears designed to cause the maximum amount of motion sickness possible. The guy behind me just proved this by vomitting discreetly into a Ziploc bag. Perhaps he wants to save it for later.

11.55am
There has been misrepresentation. There is a river, but no floaty market. It appears this is one of the tourist hotspots. Costume jewelry, designer knockoffs and things to put on shelves are housed all around the area. I was quite happy to be able to see the Thais in their natural habitat. There were teenagers with hairstyles that need an entire jar of wax to create. Pretty girls not in skimpy clothing. I even got to see one young girl picking her nose. Not bad for the retarded half-hour of time we were given. Some people take longer than that just to have a poo, and we're supposed to see the sights in that time. Another fifteen minutes and I might have met a beautiful girl to form a lasting and meaningful relationship with. Or at least, a quick shag. Now we'll never know.

We went on a railway that goes over the river. Coming from pasturised Singapore, it was a bit of a shocker. Their warning system for 'train is coming' is a man with a red flag, and some horns. All along the bit over the river, there are platforms at the side. You stand on these to take pictures, and also to make way for the train, which passes 10cm from your face. There are also gaps in the track. Big gaps. Big gaps that a cow could fall through. In Thailand, the one safety measure is to count on the general populace not being retarded, which I heartily agree with. When they started putting in doors at the above-ground MRT stations, it was mildly insulting. 'We don't trust you to not go down to the tracks and....frolic, or something. Here's some doors.'

I ate a yam ice cream, and what may be the best fried chicken skewer in my life. The skewer cost 10 baht. 10 baht! You'd be lucky to get a chicken toenail for that in Singapore. Two of these skewers would be a meal in themselves. A tender, moist, delicious meal. Just the way I'd migrate to Australia to vote for the Sex Party, I'd...well, not migrate...maybe hang around Thailand for a couple months, subsisting on 10 baht skewers.

5pm
Lunch was a nondescript if somewhat lavish affair at a posh-looking floating restaurant on the river, seemingly to make up for the lack of floatiness at the last stop. We're now just leaving a gigantic mall called Future Park, or something like that. Malls are known for their educational value, you see, which is why it's on our Educational Tour.

The first thing that strikes you, this being Bangkok proper and a two-hour drive from the last vestiges of the countryside, is that finally, not everyone is brown. No one here has to go out in the sun to put the cows to pasture and milk the chickens every day. Cities breed pale faces, sort of by default. And then we all go out and try to get a healthy tan going, when all we need to do is rear goats for a month.

Every mall is much like the next, and us Singaporeans were right at home. What differences there were, I quite agree with. There is more seating, for one. Where back home, you pretty much have to walk into a restaurant just to sit down, there's seating aplenty here. There's a lot more hanging out here for that reason, and not just by young people. You'll find happening teenagers hanging out next to aunties knitting.

You get schoolgirls at malls, yes? It's like they have a quota to meet - each mall must attract X schoolgirls a day. What with the odd philosophy on uniforms, and the general attractiveness of Thai girls, I think it's safe to say Bangkok breeds a better class of schoolgirl. To look at, anyway.

It appears that they have no uniforms, as such. As long as you wear a white top and black bottom, you're ok for school. Young attractive girls who want attention pounce on this. Skirts are cut just below the buttocks, and though it seems showing cleavage is the line thou shalt not cross, there is nothing to stop them wearing the thinnest white shirts they can find. It's like the sexy type of school uniform people wear for role-play sex, except it's an actual uniform. On rather underaged girls. I'm probably already writing more about them than what's legal. I should stop.

But seriously, those figures.

I actually really wanted a massage. But what with the generous hour we were given, by the time I found one, I had half an hour left. It was that and the price. Not cheap at all. I contemplated trying to negotiate a price to get someone to scratch my back for fifteen minutes, but I do not speak Thai. And now I leave the mall a sore, itchy man.

7.40pm
I've only just found out that maybe airports don't close, unlike what I said on day one. This is the Old Bangkok Airport, you see, and since the new one was completed, has fallen into relative disuse. See what happens when you don't read about international affairs? Now, this airport seems to be used for small domestic flights, chartered ones like ours and the bulk shipping of retarded animals to be released into the wild.

We are a little over an hour away from boarding the flight back. Unless they've catered some sort of surprise sex party on the plane, it's likely to be uneventful. Well, frustrating if anything, trying to get a taxi to go across the island, from Changi Airport, with bags the size of mammoth testicles.

And so ends this admittedly none-too-eventful account. If it were a movie, the ending theme song would be Baa Baa Black Sheep, it's that bad. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did not enjoy being there.

Anon.

Everyone loves my dog more than me.

2010-09-02T16:12:00.000+08:00

Busy. Uninspired. Stuff.

So instead of a proper post, here is a drawing my boss did:
He was saying I should get my dog more toys. Something indestructible, because of his jaws of awesome. Like an mechanical rabbit - but it would have to be armoured.

I scanned the picture, went to lunch, and when I got back he had discovered and renamed the file. So yes, that is the AMR, the ultimate dog toy.

He never designed toys for me, that piece of shit.

Check out those puppies.

2010-08-17T23:45:00.005+08:00

I was all for putting myself into amusing, comfortable positions and watching moies till I fumbled drowsily for the pause button and rolled over. Very much like sex. But then I got an actual request to write, albeit in a, "See you, godspeed," kind of way. Also very much like sex. But, I digress. So, this one is for you, damp apple.

Having a dog come into your life in adulthood is different from growing up with one as a small child. As an adult, you have hopes, expectations, dreams. Ah, the day I can throw a stick and have this half-retarded demon dog from hell bring it back without eating most of it on the way. The day I can have him off the leash on a walk without him dashing off to hump the nearest old lady. As a kid, all you know is - drooly thing. Does not talk. Plays. AWESOME.

You also make different observations as an adult. A child with a dog may simply observe that yes, it is indeed a dog. But like any other adult, I've come to the conclusion that having a dog is much the same as having a nice pair of breasts.

Personal Similarities
Admittedly, I have very few clues about what women do with their breasts in private. This is all based on conjecture, and probably wrong.

Worry
Is he big enough? Small enough? Are there strange epidermal changes? Feel him up a bit...does he feel normal? Is he the correct shape? These are things you worry about, with both dogs and breasts. Admittedly, the last one is less generic. Your dog may not change shape dramatically overnight – but if you wake up with boobs shaped like guitars, you have problems. And then you remember, "Ah, it was because he insisted on using the novelty ice-cube trays last night." Relief.

Sleep
Going to bed with them, also quite the same. I start off comfortably, spooning my dog. And then I wake up in the middle of the night and there's this compact, furry lump in my stomach and I freak out for a bit. And then again, when I kick something that shouldn't be there, and it's the dog, looking all injured. Like breasts, they migrate southwards while you sleep, and spring back into place with a weird expression when you wake up. Or so I've been told.

Sex
Dogs mirror breasts sexually. At least, this one does. Just as men's bits respond towards breasts, my dog responds towards my bits. I see your WTF face. No, it's not what you're thinking. When I step out of the shower, he stares. He doesn't like to make eye contact, but confronted with bits, he stares like he's afraid they'll vanish if he takes his eyes off them. Which, since I'm Chinese, might actually happen. Especially after a cold shower. And then he sighs and trots off.

Me
There may be no bigger blow to the male self-esteem than a dog sighing at your penis. I chase after him and start making jokes about being neutered, and then he does Pathetic Face on me. Whether it's me against dog or me against breasts, I never win.

Social Similarities
Like dogs, breasts are brought out to meet the public ever so often. You'll find reactions from the general public to be similar, with both.

Women

In Singapore, women do not tend to deal well with dogs or nice breasts. It's always the ones who only start looking good after five jugs of beer. One such incident was with a girl who seemed to have the intelligence of a circus tent. Perhaps coincidentally, she also looked like one. If I were to reenact the scene with you, here is what you would do:

1. Spot dog that is approximately 1/15 of your size. FREEZE, MUTHAFUCKA. Start edging along like you walk a lonely road, on the boulevard of broken dreams. Do not take your eyes off the dog. He might start tap-dancing, and you wouldn't want to miss that.

2. Uh huh. Uh huh. It's coming closer. LEAP onto the grass. Freeze again.

3. As the dog and its person walk past you, lift up the leg nearest them so there is less area for vicious predator beast to target. Close your eyes and start flailing wildly in the general direction of your ankles while making strangled noises, as if you were being sexually assaulted by a smurf. No, it doesn't matter if either the dog or person show the slightest bit of interest in you. YOU MUST DEFEND YOURSELF!!!11

4. Carry on with your sad, sad life, feeling unloved.

The women who want to play, or even smile in passing at my dog are always the sweet, articulate ones. Run a chopstick over them repeatedly and you would get candy floss. And they usually tell me they have, or had a dog. It seems only women with dogs take well to dogs. Just as it seems only women with nice breasts can take to someone else with nice breasts. Otherwise, it's this mixture of envy and fear. I imagine the have-nots would bitch about both in exactly the same way.

"Aiyoh, how can expose us to that one like that? Take out so publicly. Very dangerous, you know."

Men
Male reactions to dogs are more universal. After all, we do react the same way to breasts across the world.

When encountering either dogs or nice breasts, asshole men may whistle or coo. "Oh yeah, I know all about those, come on, give me some." And then they're all taken aback when my dog shoves himself in their face. Learn, people. If you cootchie a dog, it's likely to shove himself in your face. Don't give me dirty looks after that. Also, if you cootchie breasts, it is unlikely they will get shoved in your face. In both cases, please stop doing it.

Women always at least make a show of askance before playing with my dog. Just as they do with breasts, men just, "COTTCHIE COOOTCHIE COO. OOH GA GA. OOOH LA. Ok, I'm done. Your problem now." Or worse, they'll give me advice on how to look after him. Insulting in the same way as when they flip to a breast enhancement ad in the papers and leave it meaningfully on the table.

Also, a man was the only one to ask how much my dog cost. "He looks very expensive." Perhaps not the same level of assholery as when posed to a woman with nice breasts, but I found it insulting. And indicative of national psyche. "Oh, very nice. How much?" With some things, you don't do that.

Overall, it's just galling, how many men want to assert themselves and then go, "OH WTF ITS EATING MAI FASE." And you have to prevent the face-eating, too. Or you'll be a bad dog owner. Bad. Government fine you.

A group of uncles at a coffeeshop had a field day clucking and cooing at my dog while I was trying to eat. And they had with them a budgie, who seemed to have had its wings clipped. "Aha look my bird see it make noise at you hahaha you want you want but you cannot has hahaha." I had such fun eating, having to pull my dog back every...second.

It was very tempting to release him. I know for sure he can jump that high, very quickly. And that there's nothing wrong with his teeth. Bye bye budgie, hello savings on next dog meal.

Conclusion

Fine, so they're not exactly the same. But it's curious how both dogs and breasts can be gauges of people. People who treat dogs properly are less likely to be serial killers. Or something.

For me at least, their absolute common ground lies in both being attractive and admirable from afar. Then, up close in your face, they become fascinating, and a lot more fun.

Brolly Folly.

2010-08-13T23:43:00.001+08:00

One of my earliest memories is of the time a weathergirl made the news because the forecast was for rain, and she told everyone to, "Bring your brollies!" That must have been a whole two weeks ago.

Well no, I'm not in the terminal stages of Alzheimer's yet, as old as I am. I think it was when I was a teenager. Everyone was all RARGH RARGH BACK TO RUSSIA at her for sayings brollies. An interesting example of the national psyche, I thought. Having thrown off the yoke of yonder, we're all anti-angmoh, but secretly still in love with them, like that creepy kid you met in kindergarten who calls you ten years later.

Being able to contain more than a single thought at a time, unlike certain PR managers I've met, I also thought more about it. Why the hate? Brollies seems a charming way to shorten umbrellas. And the people who rage against it have nothing against shortening. "Yah you take the ECP then turn to the PIE, then at the TFL at the end you turn left again, and at the end of the road is the FBN, very good one."

TFL and FBN stand for traffic light and fishball noodles. Yes, I made those up. But, true story, an ex's sister once said she was going to HV. Holland Village. After PP. Pasir Panjang. That kind of stupidity, you can't make up.

But yes, umbrellas. Now that I'm older and uglier, I've realised that perhaps the rage back then wasn't so much, "brollies". It was the mere mention of umbrellas. Because umbrellas are the work of the devil, these days.

If you're above 30, or pushing it, you may not have heard of this song. Like a lot of the songs these days, catchy catchy, dancy dancy, umch umch. But don't get too close to it. Because then you'll realise the chorus is:

Under my umbrella...ella...ella
Eh Eh Eh
Under my umbrella...ella...ella
Eh Eh Eh

Seriously, WTF? It's true that rap can make you dance to anything, but aren't there people out there getting their groove on to the song and then going, "Wait, I'm dancing to...one word. And it's 'umbrella'. What am I doing with my life?"

Still, I can run for cover when the song plays. Stuff socks in my ears. Order ten more gin tonics so I won't be able to make out the words. But, now that I walk my demon dog from hell to work every day, I cannot avoid the physical aspect of umbrellas.

What, does it rain here every day? Depends on the time of year and whether it's been unusually NO IT DOES NOT. IT IS STILL VERY SUNNY HERE MOSTLY. Yet every day, umbrellas. Wielded by delicate office flowers like an autistic chimpanzee wields his own poo - unpleasantly.

You see, when you open an umbrella and stand under it, regardless of its size, you extend your personal space three times. It's been scientifically proven. By scientists. Walking along the pavement, it's not so bad. You can kind of scoot to the side. Traffic lights is when I begin to lose it.

Like bowels, traffic lights regulate the flow of waste material. Release, flow, wait for buildup. I have to walk past these buildups. Three girls wielding three umbrellas, with the intelligence of a snail between them, take up the space of nine people. And I have a demon dog from hell, who insists on straying as far from me as possible. Add twenty-seven normal people, not carrying umbrellas because IT IS NOT RAINING, into the mix, and you have a sticky situation. Kind of like having to walk past Michael Jackson if you're a nine-year-old boy. Also, though I'm not very tall, I'm taller than most women here. So the flaming spikes of death that are the points on these cutesy Pikachu strawberry-flavoured umbrellas are right at the level of my eye.

It wouldn't be so bad. I could just be annoyed and get on with my life. I'm fine with that. But I'm a thinking person. I'm hitting the office lunch crowd, and I can see the buildings these failures of evolution have exited from. It is a minute from the traffic light. I know the area well - I know all the places they can possibly go to eat. They are...on the other side of the traffic light, give or take thirty seconds. I'll be generous - ten minute's journey total, to and from. And that's if you have no limbs.

You know, you need those ten minutes. You need to be in the sun to for your body to manufacture Vitamin D. Which is essential for hregboegrboe. For ten minutes in the sun, you feel you need to be sheltered the whole way? No wonder Singaporean men are marrying abroad.

I'm a fair person. You need to go an hour in the sun, maybe more, you carry umbrella on hot day, ok. These people seem to take their umbrellas out at the slightest sign of daylight. It's like the people who wear sunglasses indoors: you look retarded. And you've only avoided stabbing me in the eye because I'm all ninja like that. It doesn't help that you're too engrossed in your conversation about how you're not wearing the right eyeshadow to match your shoes that you don't notice I'm directing a half-retarded dog. And then you go eek, ahhh, eeyur. It's not cute. It makes me want to punch you in the face.

There is, indeed, an idiot born every minute. They now sell umbrellas with SPF. Advertised boldly, and proudly, in a, "See what else we've come up with to take your money, suckers," way. And you should see the number of women who throng the bin like sharks at a feeding frenzy when these umbrellas are on sale. I think it showed how mature I've become when I didn't set the bin on fire when I first saw it. "It was for humanity!!!" I would cry, as I was being led away by security.

This makes it even more difficult for me to date. I would meet someone, it would be fantabulous, and the moment she excused herself to go powder her nose but in reality call her girlfriends to tell them how creepy I am, I would be rummaging through her bag. And I would be caught, umbrella in hand. She would be all shock shock horror horror, and I would be able to offer in my defense is...

"Um. I was just checking for SPF. Please believe me. I really like you, Celine. I mean, Jane."

Spooky Synchronisation.

2010-08-11T22:56:00.001+08:00

It's the Lunar Seventh Month. The advent of the Hungry Ghost Festival, here in Singapore. It seems to be so indigenous to this region that even Wiki has very little to say about it. A drawn-out, bitter explaination can be found here.

In short, during the Hungry Ghost Festival, the gates of hell open and creepy dead spirits that are of course conveniently invisible wander the earth. Among them somewhere are your dead relatives, who no matter how often or how far you move, will know where you live. They stalk you on Facebook, you see. So you have to put food out and burn stuff for them. And also, hold concerts that are very loud and annoying downstairs of the block so you can piss off the non-Chinese.

But no, this will be short. Angry ranty bits get me going quite a bit, but I'm sick of being the dude standing around going RARGH ARGH YOUR MOM. I think, here, I will just point out little things I've noticed, and leave you to draw your own conclusions.

I just found it interesting that the calendars finally caught up. 45 years ago, we held our first National Day parade on 9 August. And it was depressing. Everyone was in a mixed frame of mind, because we actually gave a shit about politics in Singapore back then. And it rained. And I think everyone stood without an umbrella during the national anthem, except for one sick MP who had an umbrella. It was all very touching and Les Miserables like that. But as the song goes, "There was a time when shit seemed too much to bear and we should all go back to China and stop trying to make it here...but we deeeeeeeeeeed."

Now, 45 years later, at the height of the Our-Government-Gets-Paid-HOW-much??? drama, we have our National Day parade. The little box in the stands that's our government, mouthing their way through the anthem? That's something like three trillion dollars a year, right there. Ok, I don't know my figures and I don't want to get arrested. It may be forty-five trillion.

And the very next day, the gates of hell open. Coincidence? Maybe.

...or IS IT?

'Twas only a flesh wound.

2010-08-09T04:06:00.000+08:00

You see what happens when you fall asleep in the middle of the day, just because you can? 3am in the morning, you toss yourself about a bit in bed, eternally optimistic. You pull the blankets up. You swipe the blankets off. You idly plot your future, thinking that something that futile will surely, surely put you to sleep. When you get to what toy to buy your third grandson on his fifth birthday, you finally give up, and sit up. Who're you kidding? With that amount of masturbation, you'd be lucky to have any left to inseminate a slug by the time you're thirty.

All rhetoric, of course. Especially the last bit. I'm not confident of many things, but slug insemination numbers among them.

Staring at blinky blinky cursor taunting you to write something, you wonder what you've become. Among other things, the sort of person who owns a filthy keyboard. Ah, the times you gave people shit for that. Now, besides dust, hair and some mysterious sticky stuff, you have dog hair on the keyboard. Well, it must be dog hair - you've never had a blonde in the room before. But it's fine. The main qwerty bits are clean from use. And if you have to touch a function key, just remember not to touch yourself after.

You know who doesn't have these problems? My grocery shopkeeper. Walk down Holland Close and in true, old-school HDB style, the bottom of one of the blocks is a row of shops. There's a clinic, a coffeeshop, even a computer place that will sell you equipment ten years out of date. And there is my grocery shop.

I call it my grocery shop, because beer-and-fags shop sounds so awkward. Although that's pretty much all I buy from there, it sells everything. No, srsly. I once brought a sample of some strange Soviet Russia-age battery, confident that for once, I would win. He rummages behind the counter and produces one. It was in between the cigarette paper and the China-made sex toys. This shop will sell you things to stay alive, die faster and feed your dog. Just don't expect posh stuff. Nescafe instant coffee have. No Richard Simmons Genuine Slave-Picked Roast.

None of this swank organisation business. Black people cannot shop there, because there is no room for them to move. The concept of aisles was introduced to the shopkeeper, yes, but the execution was quite obviously a "Yeah, you happy now?" kind of affair. Aside from the main man, it is run by his brothers – one a bespectacled version of himself, and one retarded. Yes, literally. The shop never closes except for Chinese New Year. All through the year, dialect swearing of the other two brothers at the retarded third one fills the air.

Some time ago, I trot towards my favourite shop with a spring in my step, as I do when I'm expecting breasts or beer. It was closed. Confused at first, I then cried tragically towards the heavens, whereupon a small black cloud formed and rained over me.

It remained closed for three days, maybe more. I don't know, I was so distressed. Sure, there were other places to get beer and fags from, but it just wasn't the same. Nowhere else does the shopkeeper count the change in Hokkien under his breath and then tell you the total in English because you look like a nice kind of lad.

When it finally opened for business again, I casually asked for a pack, and remarked upon the unusual closure. A holiday was it, you lazy bastard?

"Orh. Yah closed. No lah, my wife died."

Very casual about it. Good thing wife doesn't rhyme with dog or goldfish in Chinese. No, it was definitely Wife. And like how you feel when you get harpooned in the left buttock cheek, I was hard pressed for words. Time was running out. Very quickly. Only another 0.1 seconds before it got Awkward. So with my usual elegance with these things, I blinked and said, "Orh."

"She was sick," he added helpfully.

"Ah," I replied, in the tone of someone who suddenly solved a difficult math problem. That explains it. Sick, you say. Well, why didn't you say so in the first place? Tsk tsk.

I felt all that was carried in my really rather stupid reply, but he did not kill me with the cigarette paper, so all was well. Besides, he probably had had to explain the situation several times that day. I picked up my beer and fags and ran for it. In shame, for some reason. There was really nothing I could have done better. It would either have had to have been, "Wife die, no need close shop so long right?" or "Wife die, you close three days only. You not sad ah?"

Business as usual, after that. Yes, complete with yelling at retarded brother. Until the other day, when the shop was closed again. No, say it ain't so. I composed condolences in my head, determined not to be caught unprepared this time. It was open the next day, so I went and asked.

"Orh. Yah, closed. My wife's one year anniversary. So we go and dong."

The coolie breed from which I descend can be succinct like that. Yes, we have words for ceremony and memorials and the holding of thereof. But you have bells you ring at these things, right? So you go and dong, lah.

No, no sarcasm this time. I found the whole thing quite remarkable. As you may have been able to tell by my several remarks so far. Day in, day out, seven days a week. Open shop, shuffle stuff around, collect money, yell at retarded brother. Wife die, ok, close awhile. Wife one year, ok, close to go and dong. Rather than the hand-wringing, mascara-smearing black veil kind of thing other people do, sometimes for weeks, months, years, life must go on. People need their fags and beer. Uncle Tan still owes me $5.30, must remember to collect. Anything other than actual death of self is only a flesh wound.

So no, he probably doesn't have the sort of problems I do, lying awake at night, inventing problems for myself. Heck, he probably doesn't even have a keyboard to philosophize over.

Does he win life, then? Maybe. I don't know. I'll go ask my dog.

Etymology, lah.

2008-10-22T16:29:00.007+08:00

ang moh /AHng-morh/
Lit: Red hair.
Noun, count.

A casual term used to describe the English language; i.e. My ang moh not very good. OR

A generic term used to describe anyone with caucasian features. Because no one can put a finger on what exactly that is, think white American. Or English. Or white Australian. You should get the idea by now. Ang mohs began as our colonial masters, and it seems the yoke has never slipped completely. We defer to them for all things to do with the English language, even if they are of the variety that cannot distinguish between "your" and "you're". In Singapore today, ang mohs are seen as being very rich, because they digest food and excrete it as nuggets of gold. In retaliation, we overcharge them for seafood and try to sell them cameras. e.g. He got no money? How can? He ang moh leh!

Origins:
Records are uncertain when the term ang moh became popular. Because it makes no sense. The Irish never got here in any sort of great number, and there was perhaps one white man with red hair on the entire island. And that was due to a tragic lubricant accident.

The term for white man completely ignored the blondes and brunettes which composed 99.98% of the white population. Because the transliteration of blonde hair (kim moh) was already used for ah bengs, and the one for black hair (orh moh) sounded really dumb. And no one knew how to say brown in Hokkien. They instead called it the shit colour, pang sai sek.

And because the Chinese, who are largely responsible for coming up with the quaint terms we use, are better at kung fu then they are at sense, the one red-headed man became the basis for what we call the white man today.

His name was Steve.

filli-felleh /FEElee-FEHleh/
Adjective. Archaic.

Used to describe good proficiency at something, esp. language. More specifically, if you're filli-felleh at something, it means you're so good at it that the other person cannot understand you. Strangely, the term is derogatory, because it's somehow your fault for being better at something than they are. The Chinese are many things, but we're not a gracious people. e.g. You don't come and filli-felleh your ang moh down here, ok? We Singapolang, speak Singlish!

Origins:
The word was first used in a stable here in 1855. As one of the colonial masters was inspecting the horses, a mare slipped on a slippery thing and promptly fell on her side. Turning to a stablehand, he said, "Be careful what you leave around the stalls, old chap. Look, the filly fell, eh?"

A fellow stablehand came to help as the ang moh walked away, and he asked the first stablehand what happened.

"I dunno. The hoss fall down, then the ang moh say filli-felleh. Dunno what he saying. Work lah."

And finally:

shiok /shee-YOK/
Adjective. Or perhaps a verb. Not a noun, at least. You know what? I have no clue. It's a terrible word.

When you say something is shiok, you mean it's good in a way that gives you pleasure. Usually used with food; i.e. This chicken rice is shiok! Usage is versatile, and the word can be used to describe any sort of pleasing effect. Standing under the air-conditioner after a walk in the hot sun, for example, is shiok. Receiving oral sex is also shiok, though vocalising this during the event may result in it never happening again.

Origins:
In the year 1862, Singapore was a bustling port. Of the many immigrants, the Chinese in particular came in droves. Most came with barely the clothes on their backs, to begin a new life of toil and labour. Others came with precious stones hidden in unmentionable places, and traded those in for the money to start a small business, providing for their peers, the colonial masters and the occasional badger that washed ashore.

At one such humble restaurant, a group of colonial masters dined, one day. As is still seen today, the ang mohs are treated very nicely indeed. Because they're the ones with the money, and back then, the guns and the flags.

The diners were frustrated at not being able to drink their tea pinky-up, because the Chinese teacups had no handles on them. But the food was excellent, and one of them wanted very much to tell the owner of the restaurant how good he thought it was. Of course, he did it in English, because the English expect everyone to speak it.

Diner: "I say, old chap, this Chicken rice is fantastic! I mean, shockingly good! There's nowhere to get decent fish and chips on this island because we just can't explain the concept of batter to you, but the things you can do with chicken, my god. Bravo!"

Owner: "Ah. Tank you."

Of course, the owner spoke almost no English, but he knew the word "good", and got the idea. He was a great one for self-improvement, however, and he wasn't going to pass on this opportunity. Ten minutes later, he stepped up to the table again and coughed politely.

Owner: "Ah. Sok?"

Diner: "What? Sock?"

Owner, pointing to chicken: "Sok good?"

Diner: "Oh! Yes, shockingly good, I say!"

Owner: "Ah. Tank you."

He went back to the counter, and mouthed the word to himself a few times. As the diners got up to leave, he hurried over for the last time.

Owner: "Ah. Shiok?"

Diner: "Um. Shockingly good, I said. You know, like...oh nevermind. Yes, yes, shiok. Shiok! Very good!"

The owner beamed, and bowed. He couldn't wait to tell all his friends the new ang moh word he learned that day.

Hurnaissance.

2008-10-21T02:29:00.002+08:00

Like renaissance, but for retarded people.

So I've been missing for quite some time. Just short of a week, now.

...one-person pun, that one. And hardly funny by any stretch of the imagination. I apologise.

The strange thing is, it's hard to get started, in the same way, no matter what you apply it to. Reasonable things, of course. It would not be hard to get started on having scantily-clad women feed you sashimi while interesting things go on about a metre down from where the sashimi goes in. If said women, sashimi and huge bed were readily available, that is.

And you know how hard it is to find good sashimi, these days.

But it's hard to start on anything for yourself without an immediate, tangible reward. Cleaning your room, for example. You know it's going to be a bunch of dusting, wiping, moving and mopping. And the more you think about it, the more perfectly clean your room seems to be, so fuck off, alright?

Or starting on exercise. You know how long it took you the last time to finally be able to see that first bicep line. And now you've laid off it for so long, the dumbbell you casually scratched your back with last time is impossible to lift. You blame the tiny elves holding it to the ground, then go have a beer.

Eventually, you do. And cleaning your room is just like you thought it would be. You collect enough dust to stuff a pillow with, discover the obligatory one fossilized cockroach, and break out in hives all over your body. After a few hours, it's finally done and you hurl the cloth viciously into the bucket in a gesture of finality to no one in particular. Then you take a shower to clean off off the dirty water you just splashed on yourself.

You dry off and come back into the room again and hey, it's somehow more pleasant, isn't it? Your feet don't stick to the floor anymore. And the air smells fresher too. Why you don't do this more often, you have no idea.

And perhaps you'll finally put on your running shoes and go for that run you've promised yourself for two we...months, now. And yes, you feel like shit. Oh gods, how did you ever manage to do this in the past. Jesus, you don't need to inflict this on yourself.

You get back home dejected, damned near dead and knowing it's going to take a lot more than a twenty-minute run to get back in shape. You're no Belgian Blue Cow. The good news is, you don't ever have to worry about people discovering you run cow-photos.blogspot.com Seriously, wtf.

After just ten minutes though, when you've caught your breath again, you feel pretty good, don't you? Perkier. Energetic. Why, you'd even swear you can see your abs now. Why you don't do this more often, you have no idea.

And neither do I.

To sleep, perchance to...eh?

2008-06-23T22:57:00.006+08:00

Nine days already? Really?

I'd intended to at least attempt to write something once a week. But the days are just packed, to quote Bill Watterson. No, no reason, besides that he loved his work enough to flip off money. Leh. Along with the people giving it to him.

That's a personal goal. To be successful enough doing something I enjoy to flip off money. It will be tough. Jacking off doesn't pay very well.

But yes, dreams. What are those all about, eh? It's interesting how it's a subject with which a change of tense can be the difference between blah and epic.

"I had a dream."

"I have a dream."

I could go places with this. Or you could, with Google. But we'll just look at three facets of sleep and dreaming. With corresponding levels of Epic.

1. Flying
Probably the second-most common dream, next to sex with German twins. No, I don't think I'm special, but I've never had dreams of flying. The closest I got made enough of an impression on me, that I remember it nigh twenty years on. Twenty years leh. Le...ok, sorry.

I was a kid. And for some reason, I thought it was a good idea to jump out of the window of the flat, which was on the fourth storey. I probably had some vague idea I was dreaming, and wanted to test it because I'm empirical like that. There, but for the grace of actually being correct for once, goes the non-existence of tehgoat.blogspot.com and the very messy existence of one piakked kid.

So I jumped. And I went high, and slow. Gravity was like a forty-five dollar cocktail at a posh bar: there, but less than half-strength. I slowly landed, and it was fun. And I jumped again and again, because when you're six years old, you have no idea that what you really should be doing is visualising hot German twins. So whee, jump. Land. Jump somemore.

Like frog.

Yes, other people get to fly. I got to play frog. Albeit the special frying kind with the extra webbing between limbs so they can glide from tree to tree. No, really got such frog.

The ramifications of that probably explain why I am the way I am, today.

2. Sleep Paralysis
It hasn't happened lately, but it's not fun. Skim the Wiki and make your own call, but let me describe it.

You're awake, but unable to move. Everything is black, because you can't open your eyes. Breathing is laboured. Yes, you panic. Straining the edges of sanity, you find you can move a finger, ever so slightly. Yes, you know you're awake. You can feel your bed, your pillow, your bolster. Hear the fan and the faint drone of the TV in the living room.

But you can't move. You want to scream for help, for someone to slap you out of it or something. But you can't. Black. Sight is so close. You know it is. Your eyelids are stapled shut, though. You can feel your heartbeat speed to ridiculous levels, and you think you might die from it. You think maybe that would be a good thing, that blessed unconsciousness would be better than this dark, sightless limbo.

That's how it's like the first time, anyway. If any of you two people reading this have experienced sleep paralysis, it's unpleasant, but breakable. Calm yourself in the face of utter despair. And then there's no way I can describe the following action, but to gather your sense of self into a corner. Ball yourself up into a tight ball, if you will. And lunge outwards.

It takes a few tries, sometimes. But you'll eventually break out of yourself, gasping for air and cursing like a sailor who discovers he has crabs, and not the sort you eat.

But me being me, I've done that. And woken up, gasping and all. And went about the daily doldrum, getting ready for work. All very normal. Then I leave the house and a pig flies past. "Hello, you," I say. And then SMLJ reaction kicks in.

And then I wake up. Again.

3. The Cling
I haven't actually heard anything about this. It's generic enough to be all over the place but unGooglable, I suppose. Like trying to find a childhood friend whose name you forgot by entering, "Chinese boy, about yay tall in 1990."

The cling starts when you have a happy dream. Silly-happy sort of thing. Like when you're a kid and swimming in a sea of candy. Replace candy with money or something, as you grow up. Or virgins. Anything you can grab a handful of and be pretty happy about, really.

But everything's normal when you're dreaming. For a while, at least. And then you feel yourself wake up. Dream-reality ripples, and begins to fade. Running on sheer animal instinct, you grab handfuls of whatever it is around you, because you want so desperately to keep it.

And then you wake up. And even though you know it's retarded, you slowly look down and open your tightly clenched fists. Empty. Not that you were really expecting a fistful of candy, money or rather grotesquely, dismembered breast. But you're still disappointed, and go bleah at no one in particular.

Yes, this is when you find out that it's about Her after all. Because you tend to dream of what weighs most heavily on your mind, you see. And rather embarrassingly, she's it.

I dreamed of her. Nothing exciting enough to remember. Possibly, she was gardening in a chicken suit, weeding out wild Bratwursts that were choking the flowering pizza plants. Then I woke and, finding myself in my room, go, "Ah. Dream. I wonder what she's doing right now."

Something was strange about my bolster. It was a funny shape. And it was heaving gently. I looked down, and it was her. Warm, sensuous and curled up against me, her head tucked into my chest.

And that's the story of the one time I brought my dream back with me. It was wonderful, in the original meaning of the word.

Crafty Boys.

2008-06-14T10:32:00.003+08:00

Unless you were raised by a band of wild turkeys, you'd prolly have been asked, "What do you wanna be when you grow up?" at least once in your life.

I suppose it would be the same if you were raised by the turkeys, really. Except they'd ask you in Turkey. And there's just the one answer: "Bigger turkey."

But yes, for serious. The little answers don't tend to vary. Doctor. Astronaut. Pilot. Fireman. Policeman. When you're little, you're in a good place, with somewhere to sleep, food to eat, money given to you for candy and toys. And Uncle Bob only very occasionally touches you in your special places.

And then you get older, and people stop smiling when you tell them what you want to be. "Well ok, helping people is all very well, but what do you really want to do? Eh?"

A little hard to intrepret when you're little. "But...I've just told you." Nono. Doctor still ok. Lawyer, banker and engineer are the only other acceptable answers. Everything else is a cop-out.

Some of us never grow out of When I Grow Up. I haven't. I admire craft. Well, the more showy ones, shamefully. Plastering is a craft, but at least for me, it's hard to go, "The way you mix it so perfectly...and the deft strokes you use to smooth it over with the...thingy thing. Teach me, oh master."

The showy ones manifest my WIGU syndrome. But you sort of have to see the people. Hearing a song is fine, but watching a good singer perform makes me want to sing. Dancers make me want to take classes. Instrumentalists have me imagining myself playing their instrument, as if I could ever move beyond Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Even watching cooks makes me think I could make unfunny jokes while speed-slicing a cucumber, and have it all turn out wonderful.

Humour and writing are sort of exceptions, yet not. Comedians do make me want to get out there on a stage and proceed to stare in terror at a few hundred people, having forgotten all my lines. Watching a writer would be...not very exciting, at best. But the writing is the actual performance, and reading good writing makes me wonder how I would write the same thing. Good comic writing is just the shit.

Craft. It's a nice word. Someone crafting a meal makes you want to eat it. Someone crafting a story has you enthralled. Use it on the right people, though. Not on the guy with a can-opener and a microwave. And for the latter, not on Catherine Lim.

Yes, WIGU never leaves some of us. Not all of us are as taken with craft, perhaps. Some of us WIGU about being managers, dreaming daily of ways to steal credit and disclaim blame. But life wears on and you wake up one day to realise, fuck, you're 38 and losing hair like the Singapore law enforcers have been losing prisoners. You have grown up.

That's when you go out and buy a Porsche. Or a six-pack, for most of us.

But try not to lose your WIGU. If you've always wanted to write, write. If you've always wanted to run a shady business importing Russian brides, start running a busi...you get the idea.

If nothing else, keep your WIGU just so you won't be a defective person. The ability to look at someone perform and go, "Wow, that's awesome. I wish I could do that someday," is important. Certain breeds of managers are such pricks because they've lost it. They go, "Well that's nice and everything but can you do what I do? And have I mentioned? Even my children play golf leh. Leh."

If you must know, I wanted to be a scientist when I grew up. Small the time, don't know about all the different branchy-branches what. It was all lab coat, clipboard, test tubes and voila! Win Nobel prize for paper on effects of banjos on cats. Mucho money. Retire. Spend rest of life shagging leftover cats.

Real life, not so easy. Banjos hard to come by. The earlier one realises that, the easier it is for him to deal with it. So the next time little Timmy comes to you and tells him he wants to be a fireman when he grows up so he can help people, do the right thing.

Set him on fire.

Equine elevation.

2008-06-03T21:08:00.005+08:00

Relax your neck, and slump your head forward. No, really let it go. Your chin should touch the middle of your chest. If you want to take it a little further, walk around a bit like that. If not, just imagine spending the rest of your days like this.

Quite a long time ago, I saw her while on my way to work. A tiny, emaciated thing of sixty-five, seventy, maybe more. Who knows. She was dressed simply. Plain, worn but not shabby. And she was walking towards me, from the direction of the train station, just like that, looking straight at the ground and a little to the left.

I wondered what had her so sad. Because she did look sad, in a rather permanent sort of way. Like she'd watched a kitten die painfully, and someone suddenly sprayed fixative on her face. She walked softly, tending to weave a little to the left like a rogue supermarket cart. She would correct her step frequently for that. Something was incongruous, though. I slowed slightly.

Then, using the hand that was not clutching a plastic bag, she pushed up on her chin to raise her head, so she could see where she was going. Having checked, and likely written the next ten metres into her mind, her arm dropped to her side. And her head flopped once again against her chest.

Who she was, where she was going and what happened to her, I don't know. I saw her a few more times, but haven't in the past...year? I'm not even sure if I should wish that she's doing alright.

Earthquakes, tsunamis, brutal governmental crackdowns. I could care less. Let the papers report it, and the internet lookatmes pour forth their grief for all to see. I'm quite happy to give my ten or twenty to a worthy cause, when asked. But my emotionz cannot go out to people I don't know, half a world away.

They did go out to her. I remember her soft, stoic shuffle still. "Well, what can I do about it? Gotta keep on truckin." it seemed to say. I'm mostly alone, but that's by choice. If she didn't want to be, I can but hope that she didn't have to be.

But yes, I've recently sat in the chair of someone who, having seen what I did, would probably say,

"It's her own damned fault, you know."

How so?

"Everyone knows about Osteoporosis, and how women need to look after their calcium intake when they get older. She has no excuse."

She might be illiterate, and one of the few remaining that came from China on a boat, looking for a better life. She might have spent her life raising children left behind by a gambling drug addict of a husband who left her for a woman with a pretty face and nice tits.

"Well, why wouldn't she drink milk anyway? It's great for calcium, not to mention all the other benefits that come with it. She was just asking for it."

She's lactose intolerant. She doesn't know that's what it's called, but on the rare times she did drink milk, she had explosive diarrhoea in the fields for a week. It doesn't even take cognitive thought to come to the conclusion that it's bad for her.

"Her fault for being lactose intolerant. She still could have taken calcium supplements and the like. Or gone to a doctor. You should always see a doctor when you're not feeling well. I always see a doctor when I'm not feeling well."

Her children left her, one by one. They can't call her because she doesn't have a phone. And they don't visit her at all. What little money she makes goes to her evening meal of vegetables and rice. Sometimes she feels extravagant and buys a bottle of fermented bean curd. It usually lasts her a month.

"With a diet like that, it's no wonder she's in such bad shape. Well, enough. I can't help it that no one takes my advice. I mean, look at my life. If everyone listened to me, the world would be so much better. I'm going home to my highschool sweetheart banker husband and two and a half children. Bye."

And people call me self-righteous leh. Leh.

Verse rehearse.

2008-06-02T00:42:00.002+08:00

Terence, to all that were present
Had talent but practically patent
The bright side of things
And half-full glass things
Were just to him all quite apparent

"Good day!" he would say
To all on his way
"Isn't it all bright and cheerful?"
And because of such
It was hard to begrudge
His habits, though mildly distasteful

Terence, you see
Was grope-touch-feely
With all bar some elderly aunts
On the bus you'd find
With Terence behind
Hands going up skirts and down pants

It was strange, we thought
But no harm was wrought
By Terence's lewd non-sequiturs
Still, from that time on
We all called him TOM
Terence, the Optimistic Molestor

It's mongrel doggerel. But it's got far more happiness behind it than you might imagine. Than I would have imagined. And I've got a pretty good imagination.

Hurhur.

2008-05-30T08:56:00.002+08:00

...what.

Next you'll be telling me you don't get retarded ideas when you're in the toilet in the morning.

And if you don't then...well, you should!

Ji Liap.

2008-05-29T19:08:00.003+08:00

Because anything said in Hokkien is either funny or offensive. It's not the sort of language you bring home to meet your parents.

You have no idea what I'm going to talk about, do you.

But yes, you might have noticed, and in fact experienced this "portable music player" technology that is sweeping the world. They play a file format known as "MP3" you see, and...

I kid, I kid.

This is about music players, though. Specifically, mine. Funny, how we lose our sense of wonder, growing up. Back when "Hi-Fi" was still in use, I, small fat kid, had a walkman given to me. It played cassettes, and it was wonderful. All this sound coming through this...box I hold in my hand? And up these tubes into small, nipple-like objects so only I can hear it? Wow.

In secondary school, I permanently borrowed a discman from a friend who had too much money and goodwill for his own uh, good. And that was nice. It was by Technics, and the little fucker ate two AA batteries a day. Srs bznz. But it was still nice. That was, of course, back in the days when Oasis was awesome to you. "I have no idea what they're talking about, but it's so awesome, right?"

And then, long hiatus. Until a dear friend got me a present. I still remember where I got it, and unwrapping it. And it was great. This is, however, the time when she finds out it's been long dead and I've just never had the heart to tell her. Sorry love. The cute orange fucker just refused to turn on one day.

I was quite used to music on my walks by then, so I permanently borrowed another one from a...well, then-time good friend. No, he doesn't have too much money, and actually still owes me more than a thousand. It was his sister's. It was made in China, ran on AAA batteries and sturdy as a German mother. It also happened to have the memory of a German mother. 256MB, no you fuck off.

So that went by. And upon the recent breakup, we were all, "Must not be fat fuck anymore. Resume walks. Drink less." Seeing how our good friend Rostov waves from over there, you can see that's gone to shit.

But you didn't come all this way to hear me emo. All this way...across the internet. Which is instant, in most places. Except certain parts of Russia, where internet access only exists as a lurid fisherman's fantasy.

Well. That was a long introduction. I apologise for liking the sound of my own voice too much. And for wantonly jumping into the royal plural.

No, not really.

Anyway, on day of resolve, I bought this.

Looks nice, hor? No. I won't even get into that I had to buy it from clueless old-man shop assistant, who was nice enough, but there's only so much of, "Yah that one very good," you can take. It was the same reply no matter what I pointed to. Including the decorative plastic plant.

Comes with a clip, you see. But you only get to use the clip if you put it into godawful condom-type cover. The clip slips into a slot on the cover. I say slips into. What I mean is you need tweezers, pliers and the dexterity of an autistic chimpanzee to get the fucking clip into the slot. But "slips" was shorter.

So now it looks like shit. But it clips onto your back pocket, and because it's so light, you don't feel it. It weighs...

You don't need to know how much it weighs. Seriously. I could give a shit about much it weighs, but I won't. Because it's light. Product reviews that tell you what anything below a hundred grams weigh piss me off. If I can't feel it, please feel free to talk about other things I might actually give a shit about.

Ok, ok, it weighs as much as the third leftside teat of a milked cow.

See what I mean?

It holds 2GB, which works out to a good bit of all I have, anyway. Old man at this point says, "Yah, yah, this one got...two. That one only got one. This one good."

It was a nice morning. I let him live. Well, that and it was the only shop selling music players in Holland Village, far as I could tell.

Comes with earphones, USB Cable for data transfer and charging. Pleasant. No, no sarcastic. Quite pleasant. Clip, fondle power-on nipple, go. With the rubber cover on, it helps develop your nipple-fondling skillz, because unless you PRESS DOWN AND DO NOT SHIFT THUMB A NANOMETRE TO THE SIDE, it won't turn on.

It has a built-in equalizer and such. Which you could give a shit about, but won't. And a built-in speaker, in case you ever feel like roleplaying Mats At a Void Deck.

Otherwise, it works fine. But you need to choose your songs very, very carefully. Because it's easier, and faster to find a smurf to fellate than it is to find a specific song on this thing. I suppose the somewhat nice thing is that the forward button can be found by touch quite easily. The somewhat not nice thing is seeing a guy walking along, furiously fumbling with his buttox.

It cost less than a hundred. But if you've made it this far, you're probably like me and spend money when you need to, only occasionally despairing about your bank account.

Is it worth the money? If you pick your playlist right, yes. It really is quite small and light. Men, if you can carry testicles without feeling a strain, it's about the same. I guess it just didn't work out at the presentation. "Creative Zen. It's like a testicle." Women...you're on your own.

What, were you expecting yet another emo post? Not happening.

Now excuse me while I go stare at pictures of her and cry.

brkn

2008-05-29T07:53:00.001+08:00

wut?

i kanot haz hapy?

kkzlol

...y?

Right. Outburst done. Move along folks, nothing to see here.

Really.

Nothing.

A List.

2008-05-22T05:28:00.005+08:00

Ah, happy endings. So cliched, so wanted, so elusive. Have just watched Ice Age 2 again. Does tearing up briefly while watching an animation make you a wimp?

I'm not even sure what I'm still doing awake. So here is a list:

1. Pretty girls don't exist anymore. Well ok, they do. But suddenly they're all divided into two categories. Her, and Not Her. Guess where the interest is.

2. Occasionally, you feel like doing that old movie thing where they jump and click their heels together. You do, however, retain enough sense to know that should you do so, you will fall flat on your face.

3. She just has to say "Hi," and your day is better. When she says your name, you feel a tingle. You actually feel a tingle.

4. Holding a hand and suddenly thinking to yourself, "Wow. I'm holding this hand. It's hers. She is holding my hand." Repeat, broken-record fashion, until stirred from reverie.

5. You don't need something to read while on the bus anymore. A kaleidoscope of scenes and conversations more than occupies you. Resultant facial expressions make other passengers avoid you.

6. You look at her like she's something else. Something else looks back at you, when she does. You smile.

7. Songs suddenly make sense. Even the Japanese ones you chucked in the playlist for no apparent reason. Because got feeling, ah.

8. A talent for the most godawful, cheesy lines manifests. Like, "You're like a near-death experience." You actually mean them, too. Well, except the one about the badger.

9. She edits you. And makes it better. As small a change as it was, your mind, who will burn villages if someone even looks like he's thinking of moving a comma, is blown.

10. You can't walk past dark alleys without giggling like a schoolgirl. Uh, a manly-man schoolgirl, that is.

Neh. List. Of what, I'm not sure. And no, not emo. Because lists are like, scientific.

Hor?

/OOC

2008-05-19T03:05:00.004+08:00

So it's happened. We've been through all of Questionable Content, and it was awesome. We've watched all the comedy we have five times over, and most of the movies at least twice. There's nothing left to stave off /wristing at the ceiling.

We were so desperate, we actually started working on a short horror story. And then it started freaking us out, and we deleted it. Messed up – but you try to imagine being immobilised, with a creepy old woman in a worn pink slip holding a stapler and a butter knife in front of you. We got as far as what she slowly and fumbly did to the poor boy's toenails with her feeble, nigh crippled, hands. Veins pale blue beneath porcelain skin, backlit against fluorescent light from the doorway. Her eyes never once leaving yours, shining points you can just make out through eyes clouded with tears, because it hurts. But so slowly, with each feeble twist...

And you thought having an imagination was a good thing.

But yes. After a bit, we realised that though we've been saying that our behaviour has been severely OOC lately, we just took it as inexplicable, and insurmountable. That doesn't need to be true. It's still emotional logic, and can be broken down into component parts and analysed.

It doesn't change our feelings about the situation. We just never thought we had feelings beyond, "No, you fuck off." before. And all that's happened in less than a month would have even Hitler crying while listening to Frank Sinatra and morosely feeding pigeons in the park. And he probably would have shaved that ridiculous moustache.

But we think we've probably been a bit of a jerk to everyone concerned. Go, you pronoun confusions. But yes, we intend to scale it down a bit. If we can be, "Oh...I suppose so," about most things, why not a situation we can't help? Sort of like that Chinese man who was buried in rubble from the earthquake, and survived by eating his cigarettes and drinking his pee. Except less gross. "I tried to encourage everyone around me to drink their own pee too, but they wouldn't listen," is not something we hope to ever have to say.

Well, that was therapeutic. Now to figure out the meaning of life in a similar fashion.

Voltron, assemble.

eMorning.

2008-05-15T04:16:00.003+08:00

Notice the cleverly disguised title. Not bad hor.

It's slightly past four in the morning, and I've just got back from work. I am strangely unaffected, and hardly sleepy. It's hard to believe there was a time I felt it important to /wrists about how I caught the last bus back from work. Hard to believe there was a time when buses were important. Indeed, when anything was important. Because last night, I heard what will probably be the three most memorable lines in my life.

The difficulty is in quantifying them now. Most things about her are. Memorable, that is, although one could argue that most things about her Are. Fun, what caps can do.

As with everything that all of a sudden defines your mind, it started quite innocuously. "You drink too much. If I ripped out your liver and threw it at someone, it would probably kill him." There are ways to drive a point across. Logic, humour, force and zeal, I've always thought. Roughly in that order of effectiveness. I then discovered that astonishment also works quite well.

In what seemed too little time, I then find that there are words that can deliver the same amount of panic as, say, "I think I'm pregnant." They are, "I need to pee, but I'm not sure if I can make it to the toilet." Well, what would you say to that.

The walk back was unusually pensive. I ask. And sense, like how you sense that the oversized birthday cake your mates present you with is less likely to contain a stripper than the hobo downstairs wearing nothing but his lack of sobriety, that the answer isn't going to be pleasant.

She answers. And the lights in the world flicker. Silence, perfunctorily punctuated by pleasantry. Lit golden, eyes bright with streetlight and with a curious breeze tucking her hair to the left, she says, quite earnestly:

"I tried to tell you."

"Oh? When?"

"One of those times when I looked like I was about to say something, but didn't."

I compute, comprehend, and concur: "What?"

Shortly afterwards, I think a truck hit me. And it was awesome. In the original sense of the word.

Given that I write with vague intent to read this when I'm seventy and say hello to the garden gnomes every morning, I think I would hate me. "eMorning. What a nice, descriptive heading, asshole. What am I supposed to remember from this? That I'm a deliberately obscure piece of shit? And what's all this, then? Thanks, me. That truck should have killed you. Asshole."

Pretty near did. And me being me, other unfortunate fallouts follow.

You know how you read about, and see people who break down for the most silly reasons? "That song...it was our song. I just...can't...URHURHURHUR." "That fried chicken...it was what we ordered when we first went out. URHURHURHUR."

Yeah. Streetlights remind me of her, now. And beer. And cigarettes, because when I thought I really needed one, she reminded me why I didn't.

I think I'm fucked.

Diversion.

2008-05-09T00:27:00.002+08:00

"I'll insult Singapore tomorrow," is a bit of a promise to live up to. So, I didn't.

But yes, suddenly I find myself home at odd times. And I have better things to do than to invite lawsuits for your amusement.

So here are some pretty pictures.

It's Danny, for those who know him. Been a while since I last saw him. Starting off awesome, he's improved his act a fair bit. Though, he's now calling himself "The Flame of Asia". Which I thought was a bit much.

"I want you all to do a little exercise with me. Hold your hands out. That's it. Now bring them together, quickly. And repeat. And repeat. That's called clapping, and you'll be doing a lot of that from now on."

That's part of the awesome. Helps that he looks really quite delectable.

Yes. Yes, I know how gay that sounded. You only have my word that it was a rather objective statement.

Really.

2008-05-06T01:24:00.005+08:00

So I brought work back, but procrastinated it. I was going to make mewing noises here, but procrastinated that, too. Then I tried to go to sleep, but the weather feels like damp socks. So I procrastinated sleep. With all this inate ability, if you ever need a professional procrastinator, I'd be your man. Except I'd never get around to it.

But yes, we apologise for the crap start. It was going to be all thunder and lightning and other such spectacular things, but ended up as a sort of, "Pfft." sound. Why were we gone more than a year? Because we never said never.

Things have happened. Not terribly exciting by themselves, but noteworthy because they stand out in an otherwise really, really dull life. I had all four wisdom teeth extracted under general anethesia, which I was convinced was going to kill me. I went on an actual holiday, which was relaxing but indifferent. And I broke up with the missus, ending a six-year relationship.

Yes, the numbers do not lie. All four wisdom teeth.

Instead of playing catch-up though, I figured it'd be easier to insult the Straits Times, and our nation in general. Yes, uneducated goat takes on world. Watch.

Like most people, I had healthy respect for reporters. For the national newspaper anyway, under which The New Paper doesn't figure. I think it was two years ago that the image crumbled. Not only were they human, they were uninteresting and tend to be pricks.

From vague memory, it was a Sembawang GRC walkabout, where all the members of parliament come out and shake hands, get garlanded and generally worshipped. I had a camera, and was covering the event for a small-time publication. Of course, I was lumped together with the Media. Not a good idea.

Because I forgot to take the Please Talk To Me sign off my forehead that day, I got a lot of Hello Where Are You Froms. I could barely finish the sentence before they started saying they needed to go wash their hair. The correct answer of course is, "Beneath you, ma'am. May I fall to my knees and refresh the gloss on your nail polish with my blood?"

I won't repeat the jokes they made on the media bus either. Because no one should suffer such injury. I thought my jokes were lame. Theirs were paraplegic.

Grassroots leaders are of course the main driving force behind these events. At this walkabout, many of them were actually not assholes. One in particular took great pains to make sure we all knew where to go at what time, had enough water to drink, and such.

"What time does the forum finish?" one reporter asked.

"I think about 1pm." said nice grassroots man.

"What? But I need to send in my article by 12.30!"

If I, smalltime boy from smalltime town, had the day's program emailed to me, how come bigtime reporter who do bigtime things don't have? And the next time you see a reporter, look out for the little things circling their head. Planets.

Forward to the present, where MOMAE links me to article about championship gamer slapping team leader and getting dismissed. He mentioned Oo Gin Lee, who I thought was new to writing techish stuff for some reason. Reading it, I realised why.

I copy first two paragraphs nia, ok?

ALL it took was one punch to deliver a knock-out blow to Singapore's hopes at a top regional cybergaming competition in China.

Singapore's virtual-gongfu ace Wilson 'Tetra' Chia, 26, has been sacked from the Singapore Swords team for hitting his team manager Aaron Aw, 28, on the left cheek after the Swords had lost a joust with a Chinese team from Wuhan on Thursday.

Full article here.

Seriously, "virtual-gongfu"? "joust"? The game is Dead Or Alive, which you reveal in the third paragraph, still calling it a "gongfu" game. I could, I suppose, take a poll of people who play the game and see how many call it a "gongfu game". But I won't, and will immediately pass judgement: it sounds very stupid. Ignorant, even. And if you want to argue semantics, probably wrong. Tournaments have "matches". Knights, on "four-legged equines", joust. Might as well run the rest of the article through an automatic thesaurus, if you're going to write that shabbily.

I'm not even getting into the actual contested point yet - punch or slap? And I'm not going to. I suppose when Oo was interviewing, he just wrote down, "Piak." Easy mistake to make.

But what do you expect from a paper that has Tay Yek Keak as a writer. Critic, no less. I had to google permutations, because the name sounds like nails on chalkboard.

Orh hor, call peepur name. Straits Times writer somemore, sure get arrested for sedition. But no, I needed the analogy to link to his writing, which is like nails on chalkboard in your mind. He actually started off decent, going by much earlier work. And then he tried to get in on the "humour" thing. I suppose it worked. There are people who love him, find him funny and satirical. It's like how people want to be Paris Hilton's BESTIE, I guess.

And Sumiko, dear Sumiko. She gets half a page or more on Sunday to post the lyrics of "I can see clearly now". That was when she was telling us about her Lasik, and uncharacteristically failed to work something about being single into it. I can understand why she's single - she's attractive, powerful and intelligent. And happens to run the national newspaper. A lot of men are intimidated by that. But is it really a reason to have a LiveJournal in the paper?

I would make noises about the odd fashion bits popping up too, but I suppose some people out there love them as well. I was just...caught by surprise, when out of nowhere, sneakily-taken pictures of girls in boots appeared, with the faces blurred out. Then got harsh harsh criticism of how that way of dressing not fashionable.

If I started taking pictures of girls without their knowledge, I'd be arrested.

Wow. I complain harder than I thought. I'll insult Singaporeans tomorrow, then.

Really, now.

2008-05-05T00:03:00.000+08:00

So I'm sitting at a marble table in the void deck, wondering how to start this. Quietly, a man with a mullet, wearing a light blue polo tee and flowy black pants strides up from behind me. I notice him, and catch his eye. Seeing he now has my attention, he deadpans quite articulately:

"Bintang."

And continues striding off into the sunset. Or at least he would, if it wasn't nine-thirty at night. And he wasn't walking in the wrong direction. Fine, he went nowhere near the sunset. I just didn't think, "And continues walking towards the coffeeshop" sounded nice.

I do happen to be wearing the Bintang singlet which comprises 15% of my wardrobe. But how would you like it if someone just crept up behind you and told you what your T-shirt said, eh?

"Bad boy."

"Just do it."

"Ah Huat Cleaning Services."

Depends on what you're wearing, of course.

So much for wondering how to start. We'll be with you shortly.

Wistful Minute x 01.

2006-07-05T20:09:00.000+08:00

Once, as I sauntered across the road on the way to the office, I came smack against a tour bus.

Not a proper crossing, you see. Just one of those, "Ok cars, cars, cars, cars, NO CARS GO FOR IT" things. There's a little grassy divider in the middle you can walk along while waiting to repeat the same routine for the other side, and that's where I was.

Full of white tourists, it was, mostly staring glassily ahead. The hell the bus was doing there in the first place, I don't know.

But, yes. One white woman, in her fifties or so, was observing me with interest. I looked up and waved and, charmed, she waved back with a smile.

Only later did it occur to me that what must have been on her mind was, "What a cute little native."

Familarity breeds contempt, 'tis true. The wonderful person you marry now is an abrasive piece of shit who leaves the cap off the toothpaste, ten years later. Applies to where you live too, I guess. It's all the same drear thing, and you have no idea how someone else could be enchanted by it.

Though, could be, and prolly is me being me.

Increasingly, people I know are going places, doing things. The missus is in Australia. Getting laid, I can only imagine. Someone else has gone to climb Everest, hopefully retaining all her limbs in the process. Have just met a 19-year-old New Yorker who, contrary to popular (my) belief, does not go around swearing at people and is sort of travelling the world on a working holiday during his summer break. Other people are on a six-month, 'round the world holiday.

An honourable mention here is my thirteen-year-old trapped in thirty-year-old body friend. Delightful little thing, and regularly flies all over the place to compulsively fall in love at large festivals.

Because it is hard to tell in text, especially while drunk, and extraspecially with my personality in general, that was not derogatory.

And I will finally meet the Techgeist, who is coming from California to hump the local women here, after he's done with the women in Japan.

Charming rogue that he is, one can only hope that his humpee is not the missus. While I'm in the room. After I've gone to get them drinks. In my house. On my bed. While watching my porn.

Sorry, little carried away with the fanta...um...imagination, there.

So yes, here I am, have been to fuck-all, and having a beer after doing fuck-all at work today, slowly getting fatter and broker. Hmmm.

I'd like to travel the world. Meet interesting people, see interesting things, eat interesting food. Before death or impotence, I'd like to meet Eddie Izzard, Hard Gay (Not what you think I swear!), and the lovely ladies Brittany Murphy and Jennifer Love Hewitt. Preferrably both at once, in a...

Sorry, carried away again. Though, being Chinese and an exceptionally inept one, that's atwo minute fantasy, tops.

Yeah, I'd like to.

Ok, wistful-wistful moment over. More beer, HOO!.

Cheers.

Dionysus Minor.

2006-06-28T10:17:00.000+08:00

I did say I was back, and in shape. Explain hence, lack of writing?

As with most things, better explained with illustrated examples. In this case, of the current situation.

You know you should start considering you have a problem, when you're at work early and half smashed off your face. For no better reason than than breakfast was coffee and a fresh beer, left over from last night.

And it was left over because you had two, but only finished one and fell asleep at seven in the evening. Because you'd only slept two hours the night before, too busy being drunk (surprise!) while playing computer games.

I do suspect I am well on my way to being a proper social reject.

On an entirely unrelated note, it's interesting how virginity is regarded completely differently, by gender. If a woman's a virgin at twenty-four, working with the assumption she does not look like a dyslexic cow, she is lauded and applauded. Perhaps, dare I say, all the more attractive for it.

If you're male and haven't been laid by then, however, everyone's aghast.

"Is it a...personal thing? Are you saving it for something?"

Really, what do they expect to hear?

"No, no. It's nothing quite as boring as that. You see, I was born with a genetic mutation. My penis is so huge I have to keep it coiled around my waist at all times. It's not much use for anything except proper inpregnation. And even then I'd have to do it from across the room."

No one believes me, though. It's the sleeping at four in the morning, on average, getting wasted and playing computer games. You lead a life like that, people just know you have a sad, unfufilled existence getting off on underaged porn.

Little do they know that after that, I have to hang my penis out the window for air.

Excuse us. We are drunk.

Resuscitation.

2006-06-14T02:00:00.000+08:00

Yes, we are alive and well. We thank you very much for your concern.

It's been a lovely day. Surrealistically lovely. Hardly any agony, but a smattering of pseudo-work, a decent game of DotA and a charming movie in tinkly company. Follow immediately after, a brief walk in a lilting breeze and rustly rain.

Lovely.

We will attend to you shortly, now that we are able. The present moment is more Guinness, DotA, the sound of perfect, not-so-light rain and the wonders of the internet.

...don't say it like the Americans. IN-ter-Net. There's a fucking Tee in it. You want Innernet, look within yourself. And discover the horrors that be.

Sorry, Guinness talking. Regular transmission may resume shortly. May, because she's a terribly attractive girl. And because it's all...

Whimsical.

Moments of Whoa.

2006-05-23T13:46:00.000+08:00

Reality bites, they say. But compared to surreality, it but nibbles. Gums, even. Like an old dog sans teeth, gnawing bone.

Does anyone else get these, I wonder. What I've come to call Surreality Attacks.

They really are just moments of Whoa. Nothing in particular triggers it. Or, if you insist on the two-facedness of it all, everything triggers it.

You could just be walking, walking, walking and...

Whoa.

Everything becomes a little out of focus, a little less tangible. As the term suggests, it's an odd, dreamlike state. You're just a...consciousness. Sure, you're moving. And you're still in control. Think raise arm, and arm raises. Keep walking, and you do.

If only that applied to penises. But I suppose that's another matter altogether.

But, yes. There you are. Nothing around you has changed, yet at the same time, it all has. You're all drifty and floaty and there's a little part of you screaming that running into the path of speeding car to see what happens is not a good idea. Really.

People you pass and passing you become much more interesting. Instead of only focusing on the ones with cute buttox, you start to wonder, in wonder, about them. These are all...also minds. Which are the wolves and which, the sheep? What would it feel like to touch a mind? Reach...

Then you stop yourself inches from a pretty girl's bosom. Because the male mind has...well, a mind of its own.

It's at the same time rapture, yet profound melancholy. A contemplative state hard to describe to someone who hasn't experienced it.

It shares qualities with anal sex like that, I suppose.

That's going to earn me a few hits. One is amused at the visitors garnered off the title of last entry alone.

You've got to wonder WTF they're thinking. All sorts of keywords out there to get them what they want: girl, hot, pussy, cock, teen, orgy, gangbang, cunt, fuck, threesome, asian, latina, whore...

Um. Purely an academic proposal, that is.

But yes, any of those into Google, or the insta-porn that Google Image Search is. Done.

What do they do instead? Go on some weird search engine and type, "intercourse". Then they get confronted by Matrix Goat. What sia.

Hey, I suppose if they can get off on that, it's a moment of Whoa in itself.

Casual intercourse.

2006-05-19T22:23:00.000+08:00

Nothing like what you're thinking, you salacious creature, you.

I think I've figured out what's wrong. In wanting each entry to be a full fledged article on its own, I turn it into work. And no one likes work. It's being drilled and drilled into me that good copy is read and re-read, written and re-written, at work.

But it's slowly dawning upon me that it needs to be done only when one has criteria to satisfy. It's great being an Editor, no matter where you are. You get to tell everyone to piss off, with their writing and your own writing has automatic sanction.

It's not really the reason why I started this thing, though. Sure, I want to become a better writer, but by my own standards. Which are strange and lurid and obscure and Mostly Harmless.

Besides, no one reads the shit, anyway. Not you, ma'am. I appreciate every bit of you. Well, except the bits I am by default exempted from appreciating. But we have an understanding, I believe.

Those of you who love your job and enjoy every bit of it, don't tell me about it. Contrary to popular belief, I am a violent person. So fuck you, Jason Han.

In a good way. You lucky bastard, you.

But, yes. Music.

Smooth change of subjects there, I know.

I have some appreciation of music. Not in the way that tends to be, these days. People tend to latch on to some imaginary classification of music and declare all other people to be baby-eating, grandma-raping neo-nazis.

Three hypenated word in quick succession. Deal with that, weak mortal brain.

Sorry, bit drunk.

You have an inkling of what I'm talking about, though. Personally, I've got a colleague who's -into- Placebo, and that sort of music. Where, you know, the lead singer puts on make-up and shit and sings in octaves higher than the norm and it's all so cool.

Bit revealing, when the person didn't know what the word Placebo meant in the first place.

"Something to do with drugs, right?"

Because we all know drugs are so cool.

I'm more, eclectic, shall we say. Hip-hop, rock, trance, opera - it's all the same to me. If I like, I like. Have got a better appreciation of trance lately, walking to work with music. Trance is the sort of thing you can lose yourself in, no matter what state you're in. And it's got a nasty beat to keep pace with.

No, really nasty. Try it sometime. Dancing to it is great, but walking. Woo.

Not that it's improved my dancing. Still dance like epileptic monkey.

This entry was brought to your courtesy of Sarah Brightman playing while I was taking a dump. She is painfully brilliant, vocally. The notes she can hit, gods.

Inevitably, as a warm blooded male, the thought comes to mind as to what she sounds like in bed.

"Oh yes...yes...

YEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!"

"...Sarah darling, don't get me wrong. I love you. But that's the seventh set of really expensive crystalware disintegrated, this week. I think we need to talk."

Take that, ye demons of professional standards.

Remember, remember.

2006-05-06T19:38:00.000+08:00

No, no, nothing to do with what has become the catchphrase of highbrow art.

Besides, it's nowhere near November. And while we could work on something for the month, it just wouldn't be the same, would it?

"Hey, hey, look it's May."

Nothing else really lends itself to that sort of WAH SO PRO feeling, hmmm?

"Keep in tune, it's bloody June"

"What's up girl, it's twenty-fifth April."

Hmmm. This might work.

"Unfurl your member, for sexual September."

No? Artless cretins.

But yes, where did the time go. Do excuse me, two people and small yappy-type dog. Been busy and looks like will be for a while yet. Do not, however, confuse it with a terribly exciting life. Some people look forward to planned exotic destinations and beautiful women. And there's me going, "Come on, gotta get home and play Chrono Trigger".

As far as highlights go, we met a primary school classmate, unseen for a little over ten years, a couple weeks back. She's doing well, her teeth are clean, eyes bright and her coat has a nice glossy shine.

Something seems amiss. Ah yes, species.

She really is doing well, though. And one begins to understand the allure in meeting people, once dismissably familiar and now something halfway between old friend and new acquaintance that one has to rediscover.

The instrumental voice with its unique lilt. The same contours of the face, subtly different. I get there and prove that I am retarded with directions before sitting down with her, getting the beer she'd ordered for me and talking about dead people.

...hey, if you think that was sudden, you need to hear how she did it.

Out of nowhere it cometh. "You do know Mrs Lim killed herself?"

I explain carefully to her that, having just met for the first time in over ten years, she was supposed to start with the little details and build up to things like those. And I thought I was whacked.

People die. Have been doing it, last time I checked. I've been fortunate up to this stage of my rent-a-life to not have to deal with people I care for, offing it. Mrs Lim, brought to sudden sharp focus in over a decade, was our primary school form teacher. If I recall, she also taught us English and Science. I've always got along with the English teachers and was in the Science Club of yore. She was part of my little world.

"You do know Mrs Lim killed herself?"

I couldn't feel a sense of loss, as much as I wanted to. It'd just been too long. She was a lovely teacher, with a nasal, scratchy voice that was unique in being not at all annoying. Those were different times. Very different.

Times of grass and grasshoppers and catching fish in the drains
Times of one-dollar bowls of food, in a place still called a tuckshop
Times when the ground was so much closer and you smelled the earth when it rained

And just so much, so much more, because everything was new and wonderful and you didn't have to pretend to be anyone else other than a small fat kid. If you didn't like someone, you could just not friend them. The world was just yay big and anything else beyond that was for'in lands. You could wear a two-dollar Ninja Turtle T-shirt and be the envy of your friends.

Life's different when you grow. And I'm not sure all, or any of it is better.

We got to how Mrs Lim had killed herself just before another old mate arrived. She was mentally distressed, having been assigned just about the worst class around. Then she got a form of cancer and was wheelchair-bound. At this time, my own teenage delinquentism didn't help. She had to write an appraisal of me, in all likelihood the feather that tipped the scales in my favour. Shortly after, she flung herself off a balcony.

I was...affected. Little fragments of a long-forgotten, knee-high world came to mind over the night. Even the ex-classmate's cute boyfriend was no great distraction.

Once again, I can't pretend to be morose about it. The distance is just too great. But I do wish I could have spoken to her before that happened. Claiming absolute reverence and relevance, my question was how she'd flung herself off of anything, in a wheelchair.

Such a fragile thing, consciousness. Good bye, Mrs Lim.

I remember you now and I think I will continue to.

Happy belated Bleat.

2006-04-23T17:44:00.000+08:00

So there we have it. The event I've been meaning to mark for the longest time and I clean forgot it.

It's been just over a year since we've been making whining noises on the internet. Has there been a difference? I think it's fairly telling, how it's gone from, "Jesus H. Dissatisfied with life. Mope mope snivel oh whatever shall I do," to "It's 1am. Somebody tell me where the fuck the time went."

I scare myself with how different I've become. Not necessarily better. Just different. And it's interesting how the old self fights it, re-asserts control when facing drop-dead familarity. Bordering bloody schizo, that's what it is.

Though I must say, not neccessarily a bad thing. It's the day and age where having some sort of mental disorder makes you sexier. Got to have most of it set up first, though. Dark, broody, furrowed brow, stubble and everything. Then it's got to be the right sort of disorder. Schizophrenia's quite up there. The whole cannotcontrolangerMUSTKILLNOW gig also applicable. Nothing sexy about fat, bald forty-somethings who spend the day thinking they're chickens.

But yes, I think I'll only hit sexy if I'm dead and presented in front of necrophilic coroner. I do cute pretty well, but we all know that doesn't get you laid.

Here we go, then:

Happy anniversary to me
I've grown a little less creepy
And hopefully 'fore I'm deeeeeeeaaaad
I'll be able to get...

Yes, well. Here's to me not getting fat in seven years.

...two-person joke, that one. Gotta work on that repertoire.

Cheers.

Inking the illusion.

2006-04-08T16:06:00.000+08:00

See, not so long.

So, yes. I'll have you know, I'm extremely talented at drawing.

Don't look at me like that. If they can stick a paintbrush on an elephant and sell the canvas as highbrow art, then I have talent, alright?

I take the sheet and familiar click-action plastic black Pilot pen Charles fishes from behind the desk. Feeling a little amused at what I'd got myself into, I lean over the desk, waving away the chair he begins to wheel over. "Mind if I watch?" he asks. Artistic courtesy or something, I vaguely understand.

You'd expect him to go get a drink, put things away or, I don't know, beat off in the loo after a while. But no, for the fifteen or so minutes it took, he was as good as his word. Stood and watched quietly. Surprisingly, it wasn't at all like having someone watch you write. Must be the artist in me. Or lack of, thereof.

The deed duly done, I straighten apprehensively. It was the sort of feeling you get, standing next to an African-American at the urinals. You kinda knew you wouldn't measure up, but you really wanted to know.

This was it, in full photoshopped glory:

...there goes that bit of internet anonymity. Anyway, the thing was black on white, originally.

"Hmmm. Done," quoth I. He studies it. I tense.

Then he looks up from that classic Thinker pose. "I think...you have art in your soul. I like it."

I simpered like a schoolgirl. A little over the top, the art in soul business, but hey, Charles was an artist. They get away with selling little tins of their own excrement. It was a positively mundane statement, in that light.

Either that or he was a really good salesman, I suppose. He then asks why I wanted to get that done and I say quite simply that it was the name I wrote with. At some unknown point, the whole decision process had been quietly disposed of. We discuss where it was to go. Blazed across chest? Arm? Left buttock?

I decided on the less obtrusive lower-back option. It was just for me, after all. Charles smiles as I say this and there was a little feeling of having passed some sort of test. Enigmatically, he tells me not to worry about the price. Trustingly, I...uh, trust him. Come on then, he says, ducking into the doorway. With everything seeming a little surreal, I trot after.

He opens one of the two doors inside and holds it for me. It was...something else. A low black leather...bed thing, a similarly low red metal stool and a mobile steel shelf of sorts occupied the middle of the room. Neatly arranged on the shelf were all sorts of bottles and sharp pointy things I immediately put out of my mind. The far side was the one-way glass, looking out onto the street. The length of the left wall was all mirror and the middle of the right wall led to the next room. On the left of the door, more shelves and on the right, a little basin.

Decor was consistent, the only difference being the lighting was a series of fluorescent tubes instead of wall-mounted lamps. Easier to see with and better for matching colour, you see. I will not lie and say I figured that out all by myself.

What I will say at this point is that the degree of weirdness involved in having another man say to you, "So, you want to take that off?" is something else, altogether.

What goes next is the preview, in two stages. From the side of the shelves, Charles wheels out one of those dressing mirrors and angles it so I can see my back in the mirrored wall. He holds up what I drew against my back, adjusting till I nod. Then he brings the stool over, with some sort of special marker. He deftly copies what I drew onto the spot and presents it for inspection. The talented little bastard gets it in one, on what he calls the rough sketch. Bah.

He confirms that I wanted it done in just black. Then, of course, is the point of no return. With a little huff of finality, he asks if I wanted to lie down on the black...bondage bed thing. Seeing as it was that or spreadeagled against the wall, I confirmed that I did.

I began to understand what Charles was talking about with the back-tattooing. Ok, maybe not. Because while he was talking about surrender, what with the weird clicks and scrapings I could hear BUT NOT SEE coming from behind me, my own emotion more closely approximated sheer terror.

He tells me, as he wipes my back down with a sterilizing swab, that it would hurt a lot at first and get better along the way. Something about endorphins, but like a broken record, the mind replaying "HURT A LOT" drowned out the rest of what he said. Well, at least he was honest about it. He flicks something on and a sewing-machine noise begins.

Besides the psycho ones who cut themselves, most people who get want to get tattoos worry about the pain. What's it like, then? Put it this way, if Pain was a course of study, after you get a tattoo, you graduate with a Bachelor's. Or maybe I'm just a wimp, like that. Professorship reserved for women who go for natural childbirths, because I've had some horrible shits in my life and still cannot imagine passing a football.

And what happens during the thing is, the tattoo gun drives a hollow needle into you and releases a small amount of ink each time. It pierces the upper few layers of skin and deposits the colour right above the fat. There usually aren't any blood vessels in the area, so you don't bleed much. You still, however, get all the other benefits of having a needle driven into you twenty thousand times. With a wipe of alcohol every few minutes to disinfect the area. Also, to refresh the pain.

Charles was right, though. The initial shock does wear off and goes from sharp-stabby to dull-achy in ten minutes or so. Depends on your level of tolerance, he tells me. I'm reckoning mine is about 4cm, the indent I left in the leather after I managed to unhook my fingers.

And after only twenty repetitions of "almost done", it was done. After a swipe of more alcohol as a gentle reminder that, yes, I could feel that much pain, I got off the bed and inspected myself in the mirror. There it was, amidst a throbbing sea of angry red welts. The sad part was, besides the swelling, I couldn't tell much difference between this and the marker-penned one.

Perhaps having seen the look on my face, Charles assured me it would look much better once the swelling subsided. As he handed me a bottle of alcohol and some cotton wool in a bag, I asked him how much I owed him. Cue mental arithmetic face. Then impish grin. "Got fifty?" he asked. "That'll cover the ink. Fuck the rest, it's on me."

Considering I was counting out the hundreds in my mind, it came as a huge, pleasant surprise. Yes, he was definitely sure. He liked me. And no, he didn't do this for everybody. Sure he didn't need the money, but it was a nice thing to have.

He friendlily snapped the note out of my hand and walked me to the door. I didn't have to, but it would be great if I would come back once the swelling was down, so he could see it. And anytime I wanted to hang out, really. Dianne would be back next week and I could meet her then, he said, handing me a business card.

Thanking him again, I told Charles I would love to come back soon and meet her.
But I couldn't. Not soon, not ever.

Because he doesn't exist, you see. And neither does Dianne, or the little shop in Geylang.

Thank you for reading my first work of fiction.

Getting inked.

2006-04-03T20:31:00.000+08:00

Yes, it has been that busy.

So we left you at an ambiguously homosexual moment. The air is fraught with tension. Charged with the sort of palpable electricity that scientists who never get shagged refuse to acknowledge the existence of. Myself. Charles. Two decent-looking young blokes sort of alternating between foot-shuffling and playing spot-the-non-existent-spider-on-the-wall.

The moment passes, of course. We handle it in our stride, as men of our stature are wont. Which is to say, we pretend it never happened. So was I thinking of getting a tattoo, he asks. No, I wasn't. It was just that my fountain pen had run dry, you see.

'Course, I wasn't going to risk a steamrolled-squirrel-type joke on someone who would be standing over me with an instrument of torture. Yes, I say. I was thinking about it. Not sure how far it was going to take me but thinking, definitely.

On more even footing now, we perform the dance of the expert salesman and the customer who was probably going to buy something, anyway. He hesitantly brings up the stigma associated with having a tattoo and we laugh about my being used to it with my lack of education. And though I'd briefly entertained something screaming loud down the length of my arm, by now I'd figured that my primary concern with getting any sort of tattoo was going to be the screaming, period.

We talk a little about it, inevitably getting around to me pointing out that Charles had nothing visible on him. He grins a little and turns around, whipping his singlet off.

...yes, that was all that came off.

Starting a little below the shoulder blades, a sword. That was all. Done in shades of black, with a single flare of blue from the one sapphire in the hilt. Angled slightly to the right, it was a little East, a little West, a quiet power more than the sum of its parts. Exquisite, elegant and halfway erotic, it was the sort of thing you could properly use the word, "fusion" for.

Half the blade slides into his spine, with a play of shadow and dimensions so skillful I reached out to examine it before I realized what I was doing. Feel free, he says, and I start a little. No mirrors, so how the... . Of course, he must get that sort of reaction a lot. I slide the fingers of my right hand down the blade, watching it ripple down to the end. It was a real urge, to somehow take hold of the hilt and wrench the thing free.

I snap out of it. It was splendid work and I say so. Shrugging back into the singlet, he smiles. Dianne's work, he says. She has a rose similarly embedded, done by him. Depending on what sort of person you were, you get a tattoo for different reasons. The flamboyant go for any old thing, anywhere. The wannabes get your usual skulls and dragons. Sometimes other reasons are involved, like the remembrance of a person, or to be marked. He tells me I should see some of the Japanese Yakuza without their shirts. Literally, there is no bit of skin un-inked.

For tattooists like himself and Dianne, there were also many ways of going about it. Charles says he knows some who just get their bodies covered for the image - that a tattooist should have tattoos. It was different for himself and Dianne. They weren't in this for the money, but for the art. No matter how skilled your were, you cannot do anything on your own back. So it was the ultimate expression of surrender for them to turn their backs and say, "Yes, you may paint me.

Though I absorbed all of it and found it beautifully fascinating, I will confess to have had two primary thoughts override all else at the time:

1. You rich, good looking bastard.

2. In accordance with the grand scheme of things, Dianne had to be smart, funny and drop-dead gorgeous. With that and the tattoo thing going, one could only begin to imagine the sort of sex they must have. Quite probably on the tattoo chairs. Both. Several times. A night.

Some people.

We get a little smarter this time. Charles flows smoothly on to ask me if I wanted a look at the sort of designs they had, or if I had something in mind already. With the tiny, law-abiding and more importantly, pain-fearing bit of my consciousness banging on the back of my head and asking if I was fucking nuts, I chew my lip thoughtfully.

Oh wot the hell. No obligations yet at this stage, eh? I glance up from examining the carpet.

"Got a pen?"

Getting lateish. Sodding off. No hopes on next opportunity to write being soon, but yes, prolly not this long.

Getting an inkling.

2006-03-20T17:58:00.000+08:00

No, not dead. Just terribly busy. And been very...distracted. Mind's all over the place, lingering lambent where it has no business being.

Yes, distracted.

Did I mention distracted?

Well, then.

So, yes. Impulse is a powerful thing. You've lost half your money at BlackJack and...oh FUCK IT. Bet the other half.

Reallyshouldn'thaveanotherdrinkreallyshouldn'thaveanotherdrink. "Uh, share a jug? Sure!" Cue rest of night with head in toilet.

Boy meets girl. There is attraction. They are alone. One innocently whips around to find the other quite a bit closer than expected. Conscious thought fights tooth and claw with primal instinct. Fight? Flight? ...Fuck?

I got my only ear-piercing that way. No, not kissing someone. Those would be really weird teeth. Was waiting for In.Significant, walking about and poke-prodding shops. Ah, piercing shop. Ok PIERCE EAR PIERCE EAR NOW.

...pok.

Was surprised at the lack of feeling. The earring hasn't served me at all badly, though I must say it's tough when infection sets in and you walk about the place with your earlobe the size of a ping-pong ball.

Fitting then, that I get my first tattoo the same way. And while everyone and his pet cat has had their ears pierced, getting a 'tatt (hwah insider lingo) is relatively rare. So hear ye, hear ye, this story of...

Well, not very much actually. Getting a tattoo done is about pain. That's it. The flavours differ, but the theme runs throughout. It'd always been one of those vague crazy notions, getting a tattoo. But I preempt myself. There I was with half a day to kill and on my own, something that's been happening distressingly often these days. Poke. Prod. Tattoo Shop. HMMM.

The place was fairly big, occupying two units on the ground level of a row of shophouses in Geylang. Located, strangely, right next to a tire shop. Possibly, rent is cheap at such places, because I've seen all sorts of weird things next to tire shops. Hair salons, prata shops and cafe/bars. The smell of freshly minted rubber must go hella well with food.

It was the only two-unit shop there, too. Very rare. The district being the prostitution zone of our island that we try to pretend does not exist, most shophouses there that weren't going to have a red lantern on at night were in complete disrepair. Can't blame them I suppose. Can't do straight business in there.

"Mr Richards! It's great to see you. How was your flight? Great, great. Now, do you want to hear our proposal for that international -"

"SERRRR! FUCKY SUCKY? LOVE YOU LOONG TIME!"

"-multi-million dollar contract that we suppose we'll never get now."

But, yes. There I was at inKorporated - a stylish font, with the K brushstroked. Positive vibes, there were. It made an interesting contrast to "Hock Leng Tyre and Rubber Trading" next to it. And beats "Johnny Two-Thumbs" as a name. Sure, Johnny's is famous and seems to be the place to go. But I've never trusted anything too hyped. And why would anyone in the right frame of mind want to be tattooed by a person with an extra thumb?

The outside was all one-way mirrored glass upon which the name was stenciled, terminating in a wooden door at the end. I stroll up to find a surprising lack of the usual badly-photographed samples of lions and lagons. Instead, one of those OPEN-type plastic signs behind the small glass panel of the door said, "You think it. We ink it." How about that, eh?

Was about to walk off. Didn't. Went in. Yeah, the impulse thing.

You go into places with a certain mental picture in mind. At a fancy restaurant, you expect posh-posh lighting, with posh-posh furniture. At Hooters, heck, half the bill is for the cleavage. I went into inK', as I later learn is their abbreviation, expecting...I don't know. Never been in one before. Vague ideas of seedy and smokey. Heavyweight bikers lifting weights. Monkey inna tux dancing in the corner. Really, no idea.

So the sheer...pleasantness of the room I walked into threw me. A fuck-off huge sofa-bed thing against one wall, the only other furniture a largish wooden desk with a computer in the far right corner. Lighting was uh, upward-pointing lamps sheathed with blue glass, against navy-blue walls and the floor was carpeted an even darker blue.

Three framed pictures of tattooed bodies - one on each wall - were the only indication of what the place was about. An artsy monochrome dragon, a technicolour phoenix and above the desk, the Red Dragon tattoo, from the movie:

...which I thought was a really nice touch. No one else was in the room, though. No noises coming from the one other doorway set in the left wall. It led into the one-way mirrored space, which had to be the business area.

"One moment, please. Sorry!" a cheerful male voice chimes from inside the doorway. Yes, that was what he said. You must understand, after countless similar situations of "WAIT AH" and its variations, this stood out.

Water gushes somewhere and a figure emerges, towelling off his hands. In a loose, plain white singlet and jeans, he was lean, muscled and impishly good-looking. Looking a little over my own twenty-four years, he had that unique aura of matured youth. And that casual, out-of-bed look that takes bloody hours to get right, with short, black, tousled hair to match. But you could somehow tell he was one of those bastards that really get out of bed like that.

I considered walking out on general principles. No one should be able to look that good without trying.

Grinning sheepishly, he apologizes. He had to run the place alone this week and was just mixing inks when I came in. Firm handshake. He was Charles, and I was...? Great! One moment.

He quickly strides to the door and flips the plastic sign over. I just had time to make out the other side - a fountain pen within a red circle, a diagonal line across. Like, no smoking sign. No inking!

Bemused, I ask if he was closing up. Not at all, he says, with an easy, done-this-and-had-to-explain-it-before half-smile. He usually ran the place with his girlfriend, Dianne. But she was in Japan for the week, for a tattooists' convention. Inside the doorway, he points, there were only two tattoo studios. They had room for expansion if they needed it, but for now they were quite happy with the space they had to work with. Everything they would need for a session was in each of the two studios, so there was no need to run all over the place for equipment, inks and such.

When etching and especially when inking, you don't want to stop for anything. If you get interrupted, you lose the focus. Not so important for small, simple patterns, but if you were doing something like the pictures on the wall, you work as long as you can without a break, to ensure the colour and definition are all consistent.

So if Charles and Dianne were both occupied, they would close the shop till one of them was free. With just him around, it was done for every customer. That was some dedication, I remark. With a laudable effort at hiding his pleasure, he replies that it was just the way they worked, there.

Cue moment of awkward silence: two young men in singlets standing around, realizing they just hit it off really well with someone they'd just met. Of the same gender. For the longest, most homosexual five seconds of my life, we stood there looking at each other. We were both at a loss and both unused to it.

Don't you just hate cliffhangers like this?

Fancy Nancy.

2006-03-09T20:59:00.000+08:00

All these interesting England-English terms.

Over a working lunch, we learn that to over-describe something with hyperbole, adjectives, verbs and other such grammaticulars is a Nancy. Something one of my...elders then said I was good at.

Too much credit, though I do have a penchant for verbosity. Not an advantage on this island. It's all about how short and how fast. Kind of like Chinese men.

Yes, good writing is concise writing. But who can resist the occasional flights of fancy? So yes, we try. The distressing habit of falling arse over tit for the nearest female makes this one fairly easy:

She captivates, with her little eccentricities. The way she moves with a grace; a dancing lightness beyond description. A flower fades, a song grows stale - she is timeless as the wind and sea, as irrefutable a force. In a painful, epiphanic understanding of what the word was created to describe; she is beautiful, beautiful.

Not Nancy enough. I suspect that would involve phrases like "hair the glossed ebony of the raven's wing" and "breasts like jewelled melons". But then where got class, hor? Still, they beat, "WAH THAT ONE SIBEI CHIO LEH."

I swear to various assorted gods, I read those phrases in a children's book of Arabian Tales or something. When I was aged eight or so. Once in a while, I still try to imagine what sort of breast that would look like.

And no, no one in particular. ...I think.

Food's a bit more difficult. It's all been said before and there's only so far you can go before the description starts sounding as phony as a...telephone or something. I'm quite persuadable, with my food. If it's meat and FOR CHRISSAKES DON'T OVERCOOK IT, I'm generally happy.

But I do like my salmon!

There can be no argument: salmon was designed as food of the highest order. By itself, it is rich, smooth and almost creamy - a taste one begs to linger. Though far risen above the petty needs of other meats to be cooked, salmon lends itself with ease to any preparation. From vivid orange streaked with white, it then becomes a pleasant pink, still a delight to both behold and savour.

Poor things. Every bit of them tastes so good, you just can't help but think Nature really had it in for them. Then again, looking at what they have to do to have a sex life, she prolly does.

...you know, I've never liked the name, Nancy.

Enter the Lagon.

2006-03-05T16:21:00.000+08:00

Lagon, lagon.

There's American-style bar brawls and ye olde Englishe fisticuffs. All charming in their way. But for sheer style, it's hard to beat Chinese martial arts.

Whether it's Shaolin kung fu or ErMei Shan's uh, Stance of the Wounded Badger or something, there's just this grace and fluidity that runs through the lot. We're talking about the actual stuff here, mind. Not the throw-fireball-from-hands, Street Fighter hadoken fancifuls.

Jackie Chan is good at it. The nose just throws him as a suave character though. Jet Li also quite pro, lah. Somemore got nice stylo name. But who doesn't know the legend that has endured time - the one who brought magic to the screen in an era when computer effects were so many green characters on a black screen - Bruce Lee.

Being of that particular sort of build, it's unlikely I'll ever get impressive bodybuilt mass without enough steroids to make my testicles look like those peanuts they serve with beer. The best bet, as a friend has said, is to go for the Bruce Lee option - thin, hardwired strength, lean and corded.

That one also not likely, lah. He ran a martial arts school, taught fighting and did it for a living. I'm an impoverished copywriter with delusions of grandeur. Fat, to boot.

But one can always admire and aspire. So once again, long introduction-prelude to small shitty Photoshop by your favourite goat. Been a lack of visual stimuli here lately, anyhow.

Yes, I make one. Click for wallpaper in full 1280x1024 glory.

...or don't. See if I care. - does trademark Bruce Lee thumb-against-nose-rub -

Oops, I...

2006-03-01T14:36:00.000+08:00

Stealing a moment, here. The office pace has once again stepped up. Does not bode well, no. Though yes, as has been professionally advised by both of the two lovely ladies, the work is the thing keeping the cheques signed. Complain what, lah.

Mr Ancob himself is back. I can tell, you see, by the great heaps of paper that suddenly appear all over the place. Having been taken ill during his vacation, he is rapidly and most distressingly getting healthier.

Bad news. Healthy boss makes for work-long-hours boss. I wouldn't wish a hair off his head, mind. But I think his coming in early to put paper all over the place and then packing it up in the late 'noon to rest works quite nicely. The surreptitious (one of the words I have a great fondness for, yes) coughing and sneezing on him on my part is still holding up. But not for too much longer, I fear.

Then again of course, there's the problem of his staff stealing time off proper work to write nasty things about him on the internet. Terrible people, they are.

...ok, steal a bit more.

Much like the family, the sense of humour is apparently also semi-dysfunctional. Very hit and miss. Added to scoreboard is third attempt that came out flatter than steamrolled squirrel. I suspect I'm setting myself up for a lawsuit proper, next.

Not that it would necessarily be a bad thing, mind. Those seem to do for the selling of written work what Viagra does for the...otherwise indisposed. Comes with a cement truck-load of bad associations and generally frowned upon. Occasionally kills you. But hey - works.

So, yes. Prolly not a good idea to ditch what's paying the bills for a career in stand-up. I'd have the drummer at the back in charge of the da-DUNK chings going, "Uh, tell you wot mate, we'll do hand signals for when I'm supposed to go at it, right?" .

Ah, to have a little bit more Izzard in the blood.

Stay still!

2006-02-26T13:26:00.000+08:00

Truth/Fiction

Quite often, the line is about the width of that slash. Successful authors walk the line well. Timeless ones blur it. While a well-spun tale always regales, it's when the story makes you sort of go, "Hey! That's me!" that the enchantment is complete.

Well, for me, anyhow.

The preferred Goat-read is comic fantasy. Pratchett, Aspirin, Anthony and such. Not terribly useful stuff and a fair bit more divided from daily life. But even with trolls, goblins and the undead involved, chords still can be struck, and well.

Not-so-famous English writer Tom Holt does not make for smooth reading. "Ok, so Siegfried kills the dragon, gets the Tarnhelm and the ring of power and loses it to a Frost giant through a terribly complicated process of incest and deception. Four thousand years later, the hero of the story runs over a badger who turns out to be the Frost giant in hiding and then there's Rhinedaughters involved and..."

Well, I'm deliberately mucking it up a bit, but one does get lost in his twists.

In the Portable Door trilogy though, he phrased something really well. The protagonist, Paul Carpenter, is luckless, loveless and has been so all through his twenty-odd years.

...leave off. I won't deny that holds true for most of mine, but that's not the bit I'm talking about, alright?

Paul is unremarkably unremarkable. Not good at very much at all, broke and reticent in company (look, sod off. I'm getting to it alright?). Practically invisible to women. To top it off, he has a most distressing syndrome of falling in love.

It didn't take very much - they just had to be there. Tall, short, fat, slim...anything female with a pulse. Or not. Pulse negotiable. And he knew very well about it - he just couldn't do anything about it. Upon the third meeting or so, his pulse would race and he'd find himself stealing glances...well, robbing them, really. He fell in love with anything that'd stay still long enough.

That last was the quote, yes. Don't like them tadpole things at the tops of sentences that aren't dialogue. Tadpoles have their place. Ponds.

So it was that something I'd never been about to put a finger on was dragged screaming and kicking into the spotlight. I had that syndrome! Have, even.

Through the teenage diaries, I fixated myself on all sorts of women. Some of them didn't even resemble women. I'd go as far as to say human beings, but that would be going a little far. Though there was that one with the mustache...

Nevermind. Suppressed memory in time. So, yes. Explained all sorts of things, it did. My movie melancholia, for one. Yes, it just takes roughly an hour and a half of watching a character for it to sink in. Heck, for a bit I was even enamoured with Narusegawa. Naru of Love Hina fame. It's an anime. I did feel silly about that one. And that other one I went outstandingly psychotic on from reading her writing. If I weren't me, I'd scare me. Lots.

It's tough being an introverted nerd-geek that way. I'm hiding it better these days, but tennish years of cultivated instinct are hard to break completely. And I suspect all of us, besides the elite order of coke-bottle specced', acne-at-forty-five computer programmers are prone to it. Those blokes are just hardcore. Born to press Allllllt.

Sorry, best pun I could do on short notice.

So if you're female and have a nerd-geek friend, it's quite likely he's smitten with you. Do something about the poor boy. If you're not going to take him up on his uh, silent offer, do something to put him off. Nothing vicious, mind. We nerd-geeks are fragile that way. Many a broken-hearted sysadmin has been found dead in the morning, having hung himself with his mouse cord.

...I admit I'm at a loss for ideas, here. He's going to think everything you do is divine. If you squirt cola through your nose at him, he's not going to wash that shirt for the next week. Invite him over for dinner and serve up blackened bits on a plate. Watch in fascination as he crunches through what really is charcoal and asks for seconds.

So, sorry. Not much help. Don't worry, it wears off with time. But on no account show any kind of competence with a computer or inclination to play games on one. That rustling in the bushes at 3AM you'll hear for the next ten years will be him.

Quite happy I was, to have it suddenly cleared up for me. Not that it's a whole lot of help when you can't do anything about it. But it's nice to know, and all that.

Though, what Tom Holt didn't cover was what to do when, out of the wild blue, something all music and song and tinkly grace - what dreams may come - decides you somehow qualify.

I'm going with deer-in-headlights. If I figure it out, I'll do a book and retire off it.

No. No, I didn't.

2006-02-22T16:31:00.000+08:00

Unless you're one of those charmed bastards, you've had one of these days. You can take five out of seven buses from that bus-stop to where you're going and the other two come twice each before them. A usually innocuous slip dumps that hot coffee on your lap. Just before the huge, fuck-off important meeting.

Nothing goes quite the way it's supposed to. Doing your damnedest, everything that's expected from you is still late.

Hectic, hectic week and a half. Crazed, WTF DID THE TIME GO sort of thing. Still, it was bearable. Almost against my will, an unanticipated...tinkle, flavoured things nicely, much like the sweet-after-medicine deal for little sick kids.

It's distressing to discover, however, that I now seem to be a Responsible Adult. Mr Ancob - the boss - is out of the country. And instead of HURHUR GO LATE LEAVE EARLY, I instead work ever longer hours than the usual crazed ones to keep up. I'm almost disappointed with myself.

Stuff had to get done. And as said, all of me to do it with. I get to the office at three-thirty in the morning after a jug and two bottles, dazed but determined.

Bad combination.

The ingrained routine takes over. Switch everything on, empty pockets onto table. I decide to wash my face before tackling anything. Stifling the 34th yawn, I lurch out of the office.

Something occurred to me just before the door shut behind me. The instant lay between the softer click the metal in-outie bit by the side of the door makes as it contacts the edge before the hole and the louder sound of it springing back into place, extended into the hole.

I freeze. My eyes go from "half-closed with sleep and beer" to "walk in on parents having sex".

Silence.

No. No, I didn't. Did I?

Mouthing the words airlessly, I turn. The fluorescent light glinted maliciously off the doorknob. Rapidly, I replay the past five seconds in my mind.

With doorknobs these days, a push of a tiny button locks the door from the inside with a springy clack. So easy. There's no excuse for forgetting. Must make sure everything is secure. But I tend to be casual about it. Even when alone at the office, how much disaster can happen in a pee-span?

No use. The usually welcome haze of a beer or five left me yet in doubt. I reach with trepidation for the doorknob.

Grip.

Breathe.

Turn.

chikachika.

...

chikachikachika

...

Bloody 'ell.

There I was, outside the office three-forty in the morning, inebriated and nothing else on me besides the clothes on my back. For the first ten minutes, I reminded myself to be calm and rational. Ah, the picture hanging off the door. I take it down and undo the wire it hung by. Follow twenty minutes of poke-prodding, inspired by too many movies that while entertaining, tend to lie about things like how easily locks are picked.

Then I proceed to lose it.

Another twenty minutes later, victory was...the door's. Bruised and battered, I learned new respect for the flimsy-looking shit that is cubicle panelling.

I can't remember ever feeling quite as low as when I flipped the door off in unwilling admission of defeat.

Cue walk to friend's place. A fair distance in normal circumstances became interminable, with a bruised foot. Reach. Scare seven types of it out of said friend. Sleep.

You evil wooden bastard. For now, you are needed. But one day...one day. Ten minutes with an axe, and a night of toasting marshmallows.

Qi ge long dong qiang dong qiang.

2006-02-06T20:53:00.000+08:00

...wo men qu bai nien.

Still on time, I think. Terribly and tragically busy. See next entry for details.

Yes, the title is yet another series of mouthed cymbal-and-drum noises. Yes, also song. This fragment translates as, "With a series of godawful noises, off we go to inflict ourselves upon relatives!"

We'd left off at the point where the holiday arrives. Unlike other holidays, the eve of Chinese New Year has its own special significance. Planes are packed full. Train carriages resemble so many little tins of sardine. We're all rushing back for the Reunion Dinner, you see.

Every Chinese New Years' Eve, one is expected to return to the home of the immediate family for a meal. The Dinner itself is a warming Chinese tradition that shows the deeply rooted culture of close family bonds and filial piety. At least, that's what you'll read in a tourist guide. I suspect the tradition caters more for the families who hate each other's guts. You'd only have to see the other bastards once a year. After an evening of forced smiles and strained conversation, the nights tend to run on into mahjong. Children are also allowed to stay up past usual bedtimes without being smacked to shit. In a strange, twisted sort of deal, the longer they stay up, the longer the parents of said children are supposed to live.

...Should have gone to sleep earlier, all those times.

That's the Eve done with, then. At the core of the actual holiday lies the Visiting. Every Chinese New Year, I am painfully reminded that I have relatives. Relatives I am duty-bound to visit on pain of being a Bad Boy. The colour red, which is considered auspicious, is the colour to wear when you go visiting. And to ensure additional luck, one must be wearing new red clothing. Unfortunately, this being hard to carry off without looking flaming homosexual, I tend to just wear any old thing. It explains my terrible, terrible karma.

It's the favourite time of the little ones. For no apparent reason, they get little red envelopes stuffed with money. The system of the red packets work thus: if you're not married, you receive them. If you are, you give them away. This works well up to the onset of adulthood. Then it becomes embarrassing.

"Hello, hello, happy new year and all of that. I have nothing to do with you the other 364 days of the year, but if you could see your way to giving me some money in a red envelope that would be great, yo?"

At least, it's how it goes for me. I figure I earn it though. In exchange for random and more often than not pitiful sums of cash, I have to listen to the same bloody converstion year after year. What are you doing now, then? Shouldn't you be continuing your studies? That's very important, you know? Why, during my time...

The ante was upped this year. I explain to a bitch aunt that I saw for the first time in ten years or so that yes, I know a degree helps, but I simply cannot afford to be financially dependent anymore. Also, in the business I'm in, the work you produce counts for something.

"No. I've been in the outside world. Listen to me. You must go study."

Aunty dearest, fuck you. Unless you're going to be paying for said education, why don't you shut the fuck up, choke to death on an orange and make the world a better place? I'm sure I've never "been in the outside world" like you have. I'll get that experience eventually though, while you'll still have a face like a retarded horse (she really does). Tell you what, I'll throw your fucking six dollars back in your face and slap you with a fifty. How's that for outside world.

Pfft. Outside world, indeed.

So no, I don't usually enjoy the visiting. I did have some sweet experiences this year, though. At my grand-aunt's place, where I had the misfortune of running into horseface, I coincidentally went on the day and time when another aunt was there.

I've talked about my dysfunctional memory when it comes to my childhood. Where other people can tell you about the things Daddy did to them when they were five, my long-term memory doesn't seem to extend beyond the past five years.

When I was little, I was apparently looked after by that other aunt and my grand-aunt. They talked about how adorable I was and this year, brought out pictures of me when I was little. It was a little surreal, looking at myself, age 4 or so, sitting on an elephant at the zoo. Ever so faintly, the memory is there. And myself, banging away merrily on a two-dollar drum, having the time of my life.

Looking at the wistful, poignant smiles on their faces as they narrated the story of my little life, I wished desperately to be able to say, "Yes" each time they asked me if I remembered it. They would deflate a little bit with each refutation, then forcefully laugh it off. Of course he doesn't remember. We're being silly. He was so young back then, after all.

I'm sorry. I wish I did and that I was more in touch. I truly do. And a little part of me longs for the time when happiness only cost two dollars.

That concluded my visiting, this year. Still not enjoyable, but on some subtle level, it was educational. Maybe it's part of the growing-up process. I don't know.

And that's all, because there's ten thousand things to do and me to do it with.

May you wag your year in prosperously, doggy-style.

Dong dong dong qiang.

2006-02-06T19:07:00.000+08:00

Dong, dong dong qiang.
Dong, dong dong qiang.
Dong, dong dong qiang dong qiang dong qiang.

It's part of a Chinese New Year song. No, they are not Chinese words. Yes, we have songs where we make drum and cymbal noises.

I'm not late either. People in some parts of China are still celebrating the holiday that is Chinese New Year, I'll have you know. In Singapore, we get two days to their two weeks.

I've never been particularly fond of the holiday. Mistake me not, I'm quite happy being Chinese, certain genetic endowments aside. I'm not one to argue with an extra few hundred dollars in red packet money. And if it gets me off work, I'd celebrate anything that doesn't involve having lice flung onto oneself. But the rest of it is just...

I get ahead of myself, I do. To make a proper start of it, perhaps I should explain why we celebrate Chinese New Year. Most of the rest of the world is quite happy to call the first of January New Year's day and do their partying and drunken debauchery then. Why must we Chinese be so different?

Because we outnumber the rest of you, so we'll do what we like, yeah?

Well fine, it's not like that. It's a rich cultural festival celebrating the arrival of Spring and new life after a harsh cold winter. The fact that we make such a big deal of it in tropical Singapore really is because we outnumber everyone else, though.

Like other major holidays such as Christmas and...well, Christmas, it's not something you're allowed to forget. Two weeks after Christmas Day itself, enterprising and economic shopping mall decorators rip the beard off their pre-fab, fuck-off huge Santa. They then paint him yellow, turn his eyes up slightly, stick a respectable Chinese beard on him and swap the hats. Voila! The God of Fortune, all ready to Usher in the New Year. This actually happened, mind.

That is but the slightest scratch on the holiday. We also have a Chinese Zodiac, with sensible avatars like the Dog (this year), Rat, Ox and Badger. There are twelve animals in all and each lasts a year. None of that month-to-month bother for us. Also, instead of playing connect-the-dots with the stars while drunk, our horoscopes were decided by having a Heavenly Race. The animals have some sort of hierarchy according to the position they finished up. In a race that also included the Tiger and the Dragon, the Rat finished first because the little bastard sat on the head of first runner-up Ox and leapt forward just before Mr Moo broke the tape.

Ok, maybe no Badger. Everything else is true, though. And offers insights into the collective Chinese mind better left unsaid.

There's the Elements of Wood, Air, Gold and such too, so people born twelve years apart will be the same horoscope with a different element. Wood Dog, Fire Dog, Bad Dog and such. But we're not concerned with those. It's the animals that get me. Depending on which animal's turn it is, you'll find the bastard EVERYWHERE. Dog year. Dog statues. Dog toys. Cartoon dogs in advertisements try to sell you vacuum cleaners. One that ran for days in the Straits Times asked everyone to go down to such and such a place to WAG IN THE NEW YEAR.

I decided the odds were too low on doe-eyed, pert-bottomed young nubile women taking up the offer and politely declined.

Shops transform; particularly supermarkets. About the time they get the left eye slanted on the ex-Santa, they ALL start playing Chinese New Year music. Don't worry if you don't know the words - voice DONG and CHIANG randomly to the rhythm and nobody will notice. This mind-numbing aural atrocity is a primitive form of mind-control, I suspect. It's like the Chinese population suddenly sits up and blinks simultaneously. As one we decide, fuck all the rest. The only nutrition we'll ever need from now is mandarin oranges, preserved fruit, assorted crackers, pineapple tarts and barbecued pork sweetmeats (bak kwa to you, my Chinese brethren). Hey, and while we're at it, those cans of abalone are looking pretty good.

The larger supermarkets sometimes thoughtfully reserve an entire aisle labelled "Food and stuff for non-Chinese people. Happy Chinese New Year!!!"

After getting in your face for two months or so, the holiday finally has the decency to arrive, towards the end of January. Work on your dongs and qiangs till the next I get some time to stroke the keyboard.

Modern-day minstreling

2006-01-25T15:05:00.000+08:00

Hark - dost not hear?
The time of reckoning is near
Steel on steel doth itself shear
The time is come, the time is here

Muster thee all thou holdst dear
Tell them all to have no fear
For though thou art but mortal mere
For the task thou hast no peer

Now is the time! For thou art geared
To face the beast that e'en leers
Spill the ichor, gold and clear
And tell thy beloved,

...

"This is good beer!"

Complete with shoddy Photoshop. =o

My personal demon of the moment. Lovely stuff. Makes the other beers curl up into a small whimpering ball.

Simi Mia?

2006-01-23T12:17:00.000+08:00

To be fair, it's quite logical that the further we progress, the more things will already have been done. But to be vindictive, count the number of recent films that aren't sequels, based off a novel, a play, comic book superheroes or a remake of a classic.

...used the other hand yet?

So we were on our way to see Proof, another one of those critically acclaimed, powerful and stirring movies that tend to bore me shitless. Yes, yes, no art in my soul and all that. But Proof was quite well done. At least it didn't pretend to be funny, like Sideways. Comedy of the year my sweet, yellow...

But hey, what do I know. My idea of funny is Jackie Chan saying, "What's up, my nigger?".

We walk past the promotional cardboards for the upcoming Pink Panther movie and the missus tugs my arm. "Look! My future son's name!" she says. Yes, she wants to name her son Pink Panther.

No argument from me. Bad enough being Chinese and one of those with a common surname. The angs have it good - the possibilities are endless. Lurking on the SomethingAwful forums, I read a thread about names. Someone knew of a person with the middle name, "Needs More Nutmeg". There were sweet names around like...Davian Blood, I think. Also names that produce a bitter cynic by the age of 12, like Justin Time and Justin Case.

"...what? Heh, heh. You mean like Just-In..."

"OH YOU ARE SO VERY FUNNY SIR I HAVE NEVER HAD THAT POINTED OUT TO ME AT ALL I MUST GO TELL ALL MY FRIENDS SO THEY CAN LAUGH TOO pleased to meet you too."

Enough of the Johns and Bens, eh? Pink Panther should get my future son laid more often than me. ...or turn him flaming homosexual. Either way, he'll be a hit at parties.

"Pink Panther Lim," she says softly to herself. "You decide the Chinese name ok?"

Some of us are just born with this spirit of one-upsmanship. I decided to see her Pink Panther and raise her...

"Sure. Lim Beh Ka Li Gong. Pink Panther Lim Beh Ka Li Gong."

Oh he'll go through some tough formulative years. But what don't kill'im only make'im strongah, yo?

P.P Lim is surrounded by some older boys in his first year of high-school equivalent. They look tough as nails, but are friendly blokes.

"Hello, we's from the rugby team," says one shaven-headed boy with a scar across his face. He flexes a bicep for emphasis. "We's looking for some new players this year - what your name, mate?"

P.P Lim has this sinking, sinking feeling.

"Uh, thanks guys but Rugby's not really my thing..."

"Oh no worries eh? We around if youse ever interested. Name's Pete. Me friends call me Killer." Cue appreciative grunts from the team. "You are?" he smiles, revealing two gaps in his teeth.

"...anther," P.P mumbles.

"Huzzat mate? Anthony?"

"...pink..panther"

The mood flickers. The gap-toothed smile is gone.

"We just trying to be friendly mate. What's your name?"

"Ok, ok, Lim."

"No need to be like that about it. Your proper name."

Resigned, P.P takes a deep breath and says, "Lim Beh Ka Li Gong."

Brows furrow. The group advances. "Oh you think youse funny, eh?"

Just before the group closes in, P.P mumbles under his breath, "No, but my father thinks he's a fucking comedian," and puts his arms over his head.

...I insist it's funny. For what help it is, "Lim Beh Ka Li Gong" translates as "I, your father, am telling you" in Hokkien.

Um.

This does not bode well for my offspring.

Requiem.

2006-01-17T11:31:00.000+08:00

She was different.

The rest of them are tools. To facilitate. To entertain. A means to an end.

She was a part of my life. I came home to her. Woke up to her. Bemusedly said goodbye to her each time I left my house. A secret silliness only she would ever know.

I knew her temperments, her every nuance. What she could do or would try to, for me. She had her limits, but their boundaries were enough for my simple wants. My...needs.

I suppose I should have seen the signs. All those times when it looked like the end was near. But we always found a way out. Unconventional, unorthodox way that defied logic - but we never cared about what other people thought as long as we were together.

And now...she's gone.

The moment of parting was poignant in its mundanity. A day like every other; spending time together like we always did. Then, she just froze.

It had happened before. Things I find nondescript would affect her adversely. I left her to cool off and we picked up where we were, after a few false starts. What happened hung over us uncomfortably. I tried to bury it, doing things we normally did, but when I turned to her again...

It was over. Things could never be the same between us again.

So yes, my computer finally died on me.
I haven't examined it carefully yet, but it's a fair bit over a thousand dollars, should I need to get a new one.

And that makes me a sad, sad goat.

Meow Mix.

2006-01-09T18:52:00.000+08:00

It's like the civilised world has selective amnesia towards the end of the year.

Everyone gets so psyched. "HAPPY NEW YEAR!", we exclaim to each other. There is global revelry as we celebrate the end of the previous year and the beginning of a new one. People queue for hours to get into NEW YEAR PARTAYs at clubs and such, hoping for a night of drunken debauchery.

Post party, we enter the new year with hope, joy and happiness. We resolve to be better people. This is the year where everything will change for the better!

Of course, it all lasts about two days before we realize we're really in exactly the same shit as before. Funny things, people.

It hasn't really been a rousing start, for me. Work to do by the truckload, running on broke far earlier than I should be and already she and I have fought. This isn't another whinentry, though. No, no.

There's something about the route I take to the bus stop on the way to work. The mind rustles with the abstract and absurd and I'm quite likely to run smack into a car someday. Today though, I was thinking about cats.

Lovely creatures. Dogs are all that, but cats are where it's at.
Matter of fact, it'd be great to be a cat!

Oh to be a cat!
Like that, like that
No worries
No hurries
Just plush-paw paddies

I could be a kitten
With little kitten mittens
And the softest downy fur
That you would love, for sure

Or a sleek, stealthy prowler
Wouldn't that be dapper
I'd stalk my prey, crouch and wait
And make him what I ate

I'd never be unhappy
Unhappy is unkitty
I'd have no bills, no tests to fail
And I could chase my tail!

Oh to be a cat!
Like that, like that
But not the one
The car squashed flat

Here's hoping your year got off to a better start than mine.

Sign Language.

2005-12-30T11:39:00.000+08:00

Ah.

I do so solemnly swear, the next car I see with that yellow, "Baby on Board" sign stuck at the back I will CRUSH KILL AND DESTROY. Seriously. Follow the herd of mindless idiots who think those yellow signs are cute, if you must. But for crying out loud, I've seen twenty thousand different phrases you can buy. Some of them are actually amusing. SO WHY...

No wait, I know: it's the only phrase my LEHLARLOR-English country can understand. HUR HUR BABY ON BOARD SO KEWT WE BUY LAR.

I know what you're thinking, two people and small yappy-type dog. Perhaps well-meaning, new parents just want to tell everyone to be a little more careful, please?

Since I've started seeing the signs, which works out to, say, four months, I have yet to see one fucking baby in the car. Not. One. And some of them are driven by I R SO GLAM young darlings - no prizes for guessing who the Baby is. Look carefully and you can see the planets orbiting their heads.

If you drive, do your part to make the world a better place. The next time you see a car sporting BABY ON BOARD, carefully pull up next to them, tap your horn to get their attention and smile. They can't hear you of course so it's all got to be sign language.

- Point to the back of their car.

- Air-draw a square.

- Do that universal baby-cradling motion: palms turned upwards and placed on top of each other, held slightly below the rib cage. Rock from side to side.

- Do another bit of universal signing. Hold hands up to roughly shoulder level. Keeping palms flat and digits together, point each hand away from yourself to each side. Raise eyebrows and have mouth slightly agape. As retarded as it sounds, people everywhere understand this to mean, "Where?" .

Likely reactions from the other driver at this point include waving, smiling and miming eating a steak. Proceed to last universal gesture.

- Hold fist up to face, with the back of your hand facing the driver. Slowly and deliberately, extend middle finger.

...Happy New Year. Pull your ear.

Must...have... .

2005-12-23T18:33:00.000+08:00

It's interesting how our priorities change as we grew older.

When I was about say, nine, the one thing that mattered was Dragonball cards. There was no reason to it. The cards were being sold. All the other kids were getting them. You had to get them.

They served no purpose, either. You bought packs of them and hoped to see shiny holographic designs on a few, which made them Golden. And you could take those and tell all your friends you GOT A GOLD ONE OMFG NEH NEH NEE BOO BOO.

We just didn't understand why the stupid adults didn't see them as the precious artifacts they were.

That died out eventually. Then it was video game consoles. Little pastel eight-bit graphics were the coolest and days were spent at the houses of those who were fortunate enough to have consoles. The number of control-pad combination moves I had memorized, then. Ah.

Then an aunt quite kindly got me a computer. It was arcane stuff to everyone else, but somehow I got my hands on a copy of Ultima Underworld. Must have come with the package. It was my world for gods know, that little 8 x 6 cm of game window. Those were the days when gameplay sold games.

The damned things just never come with a balance player interest and plot length and complexity. RPG after RPG, I lost interest looking for TEH VITAL KEY OF INTAR DIMENSIONAL TRAVEL or the MAGIC ORB OF DOOM, hidden in the secret room of a secret dimension, that you HAD to have to progress in the game. So at about...14? I discovered Magic cards.

It's one of those things. Players are endlessly taunted for being geeks, but it's really an extremely fun game. Prohibitively costly though and after four years or so ripping open pack after pack to see what Uncommons and Rares I got that I could use, sell or trade, I put a lid on it. Yes, I would approach creepy-looking strangers with greasy hair, coke-bottle glasses and acne that looked like it was alive. And say, "Wanna see my cards?"

Let us put that behind us.

"But what of women? The sweet, sweet girlies?", I hear you ask ever so silently. Of course I appreciated a pretty face as well as the next man. But as far as I was concerned, women, like chicken pox, were something that happened to other people. I eventually got the chicken pox, though. And some clueless girls did take up with me. More, "Oh. I suppose so." than "Kiss me you fool." stuff, but we can't all be charmers.

Rightfully, I should be at the point where I've worked out what I want in life and am busy climbing the corporate ladder to get to it. But no, not really. The bills are being paid, with a little left over for the odd (alright, constant) fag and beer and that's about it.

Some people are very driven. Driven everywhere, they are. As above, they know what they want, and they'll stop at nothing to get it. I've got to the "fuck it and be content" stage. I've got a modest income, am not in debt and hey, it's not so bad. Oh sure I have the occasional pang for wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, whatever Avarice dreams about. But it ain't broke, yet.

Sorry, Izzard and Holt. T_T

In case I don't get back here before the 25th, have a merry Christmas. The proper sort, with the fireplace roaring and friends over with a chilled one. Not the crass commercial one, even though it's at a 40% discount.

Rawr.

2005-12-20T13:38:00.000+08:00

We now interrupt your regular goatmission to bring you a badly drawn beast from our sponsors.

Though his appearance is fearsome in a comical way, Stuffyouandyourbetterpicturus has a gentle temperment and does not attack unless relentlessly taunted about his social life. As you can imagine, looking like that, he does not get many dates.

Thank you for your patronage. Your comments of "WTF is wrong with this Goat" are very much appreciated.

We now return you to your regular INTARNAT.

The Dark Side in the dark.

2005-12-12T11:33:00.000+08:00

Ah, I kill me with my hilarious titles.

Intriguing isn't it, how the difference between day and night down here tends to work out to 72 hours. Would be inappropriate if I took till Christmas to put the rest of the pictures up. Different sort of colour theme altogether.

-wince-

But here we go. The event Vasantha Oli is in two segments. After the active active activities too early in the morning, you get to look at the exhibits and watch performances till about two in the afternoon. Then everybody goes home for a siesta, and come back in the evening for the other half of the party.

And this other half is where the party genes really show.

You know what happens at Chinese-themed events of this sort? About twenty people come to an area with seating for four hundred. Performances inevitably involve Chinese dialect songs from twenty years ago. Sung by people who were thirty, twenty years ago.

The crowd here? Ladies and germs, I present you:

And they weren't there for fifty-cent prizes in a lucky draw, either. Cheering, screaming, whistling and flinging of undergarments aplenty. Well maybe not the last one. I only saw two pair flung.

What I didn't get: A pretty girl comes on stage and the crowd erupts.

Fair enough. Famous singers come on stage to perform and the crowd erupts.

Fairly logical. They were pretty good, too. Even for the little ones performing, the crowd erupted.

I can understand that. They were adorable, and the dancing ones fairly good.

But when nothing happened:

...they also screamed and cheered like Britney Spears just dropped her top, lah.

These people really had fun. Without any sort of overtone, I note that most of the ones MAKING SOME NOISE seemed to be foreign workers, in the sea of people by the side. Sad, how apparent sophistication seems to put sticks up everyone's arses. Though, I don't know, perhaps they were helped along by generous doses of Black Cat or Baron's Strong Brew.

But to wrap up the night, you must meet the person I thought was just fan-fuckin'-tastic. Being a dancer of the epileptic monkey persuasion myself, I nonetheless appreciate good dancing when I see it. The Indian culture, at least to me, is known for dance. Their footwork and booty-shaking started long before Beyonce came onto the scene.

Pictures tend to be unable to do good dancers justice. But I tries.

The way he moved, you'd swear he was quadruple-jointed and smoking that shit. Needless to say, the crowd pulled all the stops out while he was dancing. People living on the twenty-fifth floor of nearby flats must have thought there was a riot.

And my pride and joy of the night:

And meh to you people who think photography is easy, alright?

An enjoyable event, it was. Would have been more so if I didn't have to toast a Sunday on it but if wishes were fishes the smell would be terrible.

I think it's to do with the bling bling. When they're about two years old, a lot of Indian children get their ears pierced for gold earrings? I mean, how could you not grow up happenin' happenin' like that eh? eH?

So now, I have my parents to blame.

The Dark Side has more fun.

2005-12-09T12:32:00.000+08:00

Late, late. Always late.

Before anything though, I must insist you two people and small yappy-type dog view this one out of context with the previous entry. Um.

So, yes. Being in Singapore, you don't get many African Americans. Brothas, if you will. We have their Asian counterparts, the Indians. One thing I've found they share in common is the ability to have more fun. The other similarity I have no need to point out.

It's true. Even dismissing my reverse-racist prejudices, it's something out there for all to see. I cannot lie, and the other brothers can't deny. I was covering Vasantha Oli, an Indian celebration of Deepavali of sorts as far as I could tell. It's a community event, organized by grassroots people and Indian activity groups.

Most of the community events I've attended lean toward the constant-checking-of-watch type of event. Very few of the people attending seem to be having any fun. Polite applause aplenty, and all that sort of thing. Like Chinese weddings, really. No one actually knows each other, and it's all chatty aunts, drinking uncles and sullen kids. It's the free dinner that draws them, and the same works for these events.

I did say most. Some can be good fun - but this one had me blown. Away, that is. What were you thinking?

For one thing, the sheer number of people there was amazing. The event started in the morning with a Healthy Lifestyle theme that's oh-so-popular now. They had the whole tent full of people do an aerobics workout, Bhangra-style. You could get the VCD too, for just $2. I managed to restrain myself.

20,000 people doing the Chicken is a sight to behold. And try to wipe from your memory as fast as possible.

Then everyone sodded off to a mass Brisk Walk. I think too much of a deal is made out of it. EVERYONE LET'S ALL GET TOGETHER, WALK A RATHER SHORT DISTANCE AND THEN CONGRATULATE OURSELVES. All in the name of good health though, which I strongly support. With a cigarette and can of beer in hand.

For those who've never seen Chinese and Malay cultural displays, you'll have to take my word as to what they're like. Good luck to you. Chinese dances are graceful, fluttery things. Then you have Chinese Opera, which involves men in heavy makeup playing the part of women half their age. Accompanied by people banging on pots and pans with great enthusiasm.

In my opinion, Malay dances and songs are about the same, 'cept taken down a speed notch. Slower dances, more ballady ballads. Dangduts can be rather lively, though I'm hard pressed to describe them properly. Ok, ok, many Malays in colourful traditional dress sitting down cross-legged on the floor. Generally, the team is in rows of two or three. They play the Malay, bongo-like drums and sort of sing and chant and occasionally flail their arms. ...I messed that up, didn't I? Sorry.

But the point is, in none of them have I seen a Hoss!

Or peacocks!

...though you could say at Chinese celebrations there's pea-co... Nevermind.

Or flaming, angry gods!

Gods can always be appeased, of course. Our friend of the hellfire and brimstone was a lot more mellow after a Fillet O' Fish was sacrificed. Positively jaunty. And they say fast food is bad for you.

Seriously though, those were amazing costumes. And the dances were something else, too. A far cry from the forward-facing chicken dance that has tragically become iconic of Indian dances, our bloke upstairs kicked up a storm. The way he stomped about and the glare he had made you want to run to the nearest McDonald's to buy him another Fillet O' Fish.

Sri Lankan, I believe. Look and learn people. A well-designed outfit will take attention away from any belly and turn you majestic, majestic.

And of course, it's never complete without a pretty girl. Now sold in economical three-packs. I tried to chat them up, but they immediately assumed the SeeNoEvilHearNoEvilSpeakNoEvil pose. And then pretended they couldn't speak English.

On that forlorn note, I left the premises a sad goat. Alright, I lie. An angry god, sans Fillet O' Fish, threatened me with a fistful of curry powder. The event went on for a while yet though, with people milling about prodding the displays and such. Everyone then took a break until evening, where more stuff happened.

How do I know? Let's just say there is reason for my complaints about long hours and negotiable weekends. More is to come, yes. And no, the pictures I took at night didn't all turn out to be sheets of black.

-runs for it-

The Brown Stuff.

2005-12-02T12:14:00.000+08:00

We've all done it as a kid. Pursed our lips tightly together and forced air through them. Just for fun, sometimes. And we'd find it killingly funny to do it and then point at other tots and accuse them of farting. Denial is futile.

Go ahead, do it. Sort of slowly at first, and then pick up the tempo to an explosive finish. Good. Keep that sound firmly in mind.

I don't think I've told you three people and small yappy-type dog, but this goat is lactose-intolerant. I've always found the term mildly amusingly. Cannot tolerate lactose. Won't stand for the vile stuff. Evil things, lactoses. Sort of like how the KKK is Black-intolerant.

There're different degrees of lactose intolerance, of course. Some people just get mild stomach discomfort after two pints of milk. Some have acute pains after downing a glass.

As with all things me, I have to be spectacular, spectacular.

I never used to be lactose intolerant. The missus, similarly afflicted, would turn down offers of ice cream. It was great, because I could magnanimously offer to share some top notch stuff and then eat it all myself, anyway.

Then it happened. The first bout of explosive diarrhoea. And we all like to think our shit don't stink, but this was something else altogether. I couldn't lie, and the other brothers could not deny.

Many a clueless...hour-long interval was spent, arms akimbo in what became a porcelain torture chamber. What, you think I took you through those motions at the start for fun? Times like those made being a smoker a blessing. Eventually, I made the connection. The rich, creamy friend I once had was now so much white, fluffy intestinal death.

But like aging men with bits that don't work quite so well anymore, we go into denial. Glass of milk? Well...alright.

Then things actually move in the stomach. I liken it to being four months along, and feeling the baby stir for the first time. Except instead of an "Oh! Oh! Oh my god!", it's more of "Oh. Fuck."

And for the love of all things cute and fluffy, you don't want to let rip a fart just then. I refuse to tell you how I know.

Yes. Had milk this morning.

Mundane melody.

2005-11-28T16:24:00.000+08:00

So let's go optimistic for a change, eh?

Been trying to write about and put up pictures of an event I attended. But as usual, everything looked so efficient on the drawing board. Should have them up shortly, at any rate.

There's something to be said for routine and being a stay-at-home nerdgeek - saves money. Abandon all pretense, all ye who enter and that sort of thing. It gets the bills paid, pays for the fags and gives breathing room for when money is needed at home.

I'll leave the flash and splash and spontaneous sex with attractive strangers met at the club to you folks. Cigarrettes, coffee and computer will suffice.

Hmmm.

And can-of-beer. And internet Connection.

There. Most Singaporeans dream about their five Cs, spend their lives pursuing it and drop down dead when the last monthly payment is done with. I've already got them. And don't you start about the technicalities. Cs are Cs.

And when you get down to it really, a pair of Cs are quite sufficent to make any bloke happy.

Applying Shakespeare.

2005-11-18T11:26:00.000+08:00

If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a gentle kiss

-Romeo and Juliet, Act 1, Scene 5

The weirdest things come to one at the most cuttingly dull of moments.

I had a...thing for Romeo and Juliet. The true intellectual will lambast my interest for being piqued by the screen version; "Romeo + Juliet", rather than any study of the greatest love story ever told.

But to the pimply, floppy-haired and clueless teenager I was, the whole affair was outstandingly well done. The movie wore a fedora with a matching overcoat. It had the perfect growth of a 5 o'clock shadow, and the smouldering cigar it held loosely at the corner of the mouth glowed crimson against a backdrop of grimy streets lit by a single, yellow street lamp. Complete with an ever-so-slight drizzle.

That dripping sound is the style trickling off the rim of the fedora onto the streets. Stylishly, of course.

Young minds are stupid. Almost without exception. Let's be nice and liken the analogy to unforged steel. I think I had to watch the movie thrice to understand everything, and one of them was with someone I later went outstandingly psychotic on. There was much moping about and wringing of hands. And a brilliant amount of stupidity.

But hindsight is always 20/20. And we learn from our mistakes. Which is why I now keep a bottle of chloroform handy.

Kidding. I think.

So the brilliant idea was, to set up a table in, say, the middle of Borders. Two signboards. "Free handshakes" on one, and the above quote on the other. Two blokes at the table, one doing the handshake and checking back with the other.

"Am I profaning this one, mate?"

"No, no, that's nowhere near a holy shrine. More of a public restroom, if you ask me."

"This one, then?"

"Not as bad, but closer to 'parking lot'."

"Right then. This?"

"Hell, no. It'd be the other way round, and gods know you've got a face only your mother could love. And that's negotiable if she's got a dog."

"...no need to be like that about it. What about..."

And then Brittany Murphy walks into the store, and the two blokes make strangled noises and drop down dead. Too holy, you see.

I refuse to have my taste in women questioned.

Thou shalt not covet.

2005-11-15T15:39:00.000+08:00

...no, my neighbour does not have an ox. Don't particularly want one, either.

Though I must say, there's something about squeezing milk out of an udder that's...

Anyway.

Perhaps it's subliminal Hollywood brainwashing, but there's just something about that classic setup of writer-with-laptop-in-place-with-ambience thing that gets me. It's all over the place, isn't it? Writers are glamorized on the silver screen - no work required, it seems.

Just get a sexy, sexy Apple laptop and you're set, apparently. You'll be sitting at the Starbucks down the road, sipping overpriced designer coffee. In ten minutes, you'll bang out something a paper will pay you thousands for.

Or you'll be curled up in a huge fuck-off bed, soft golden lighting the only illumination as you peck pensively at the keyboard on your lap, putting the final touches to yet another bestseller. Then the drop-dead gorgeous, intelligent, funny, buxom blonde comes out the shower in a flimsy bathrobe, sashays up to you and lets it slide off her.

What follows after is probably not something I should be thinking about at work.

My kingdom for a laptop!

But yes, I'm no diva la obnoxia. Peepur lose camera, got fans buy for her, hor. The way it's going now, I'd be lucky to get a solar-powered calculator if the wheezing computer at home ups and dies on me.

Getting antsy.

2005-11-09T15:47:00.000+08:00

...no, haven't levelled yet. Slightly less than 50% more exp to go. Now the grind gets...grinding. T_T

But of course, I have my ardent fans to entertain. I've been entirely too EMO lately, and I do apologize. Quite unworthy of me. I mean, if people actually -wanted- to hear whining noises and bad melodrama, there's always Channel 8.

So here is something funny.

...Laugh, damn you.

It's Hammer time!

2005-11-03T23:14:00.000+08:00

No, no. Not him.

More of...him.

...Just trying to please everyone.

The words "addicted" and "obsessed" are used too callously these days. So no, I will not use them.

However,

ALL ELSE ON HOLD UNTIL MACE PAGE LEVEL TO 65 AND MAX FINAL ATTACK KTHXBAI.

I have reached the good bit, and it tastes like chicken.

What.

10kg Bags of Emo.

2005-10-27T23:12:00.000+08:00

There's a difference.

Between prancing about in the light night rain and delighting in the pecks of rain across arms and face. Glancing around in wonder at the crispness everything assumes in this particular sort of weather, and clenching fists against a strange, delicious cold.

...And trudging home from the bus stop at 11pm, having just got off work. Cold, wet, hungry and unanticipative of any food at home. Narrowly avoiding crunching a snail, and absent-mindedly saving it after a second thought. Preoccupied with bittersweet amusement, that tomorrow isn't going to be much better, but perhaps the weather will change.

The whiny Singaporean male striketh!

But no, I'm not really complaining. He works far harder than I do, and has my respect. I have, however, decided upon a better job description.

Coolie.

Fits, you see. I don't do much actual writing at work. It's more of electronic coolie-ing - the moving about of stuff that needs moving; the setting up of things that need setting. Add up all the others things I do and I could write quite earnestly in the Job Description part of a form, "BAO KA LIAO" .

Besides, it fits the image of the singlet and jeans. It took perserverence, strategy and mild manipulation. But yes, no more Phantom Squirrel situations.

Oh, for a bit more time to do stuff with. But let me not wistfully wish beyond my station. I am but a coolie, and no lofty "freelance writer and professional blogger".

Professional envy? Sure - I don't do denial. But by the tits of ten tremulous tyrants, that phrase of hers pisses me off on forty-two different levels. I just took a look at her site - haven't in a while. It was a genuine, involuntary, "Oh. My. Fucking. God." situation.

Ah, the rain. It falls.

Supplies!

2005-10-24T08:03:00.000+08:00

No, no, not my cake. Just jacked it off TEH INTARNAT.

I do think it's curious how those little dinky candles have become ubiquitous. Anywhere in the world, it seems. Birthdays: little dinky, pastel-themed candles. With spirals. There has to be a fuck-off huge company making these things. LUP CHEONG PLASTIC or something. The things just scream Made in China.

But I had quite a lovely time. And yes, that was genuine surprise. It was a grand affair, and I'm not sure that I deserved it, or the people who arranged for it.

And so, in this quiet corner of the internet, let me thank you again. I love you all, in spite of your terribly bad jokes.

Torch (t)his space.

2005-10-22T00:23:00.000+08:00

Flip.
More than a week, already? Time doesn't fly when you're having fun. It's just a nicer thing to say. Too easily, one gets sucked into a rinse/repeat life. And then the grains of sand really pour down.

Click.
It would be interesting to track a person's mouseclicks per day. Correlate it, and you could get all sorts of fun statistics. Men who click a mouse an average of 50 times a day for example, could be the group most likely to wear women's undergarments. At the office. That they stole from their grandma.

I'm fairly certain there's a direct relation between average mouseclicks and getting laid. Think tanned, muscled, achingly cute guys who know everyone at the club. And then think pasty, acnefied gamer boy who chats up female nightelves on WoW.

Would explain a lot about my situation, anyway.

Sear
So no, not a whole lot happening here. Yet at the same time, too much
cutting
drama. But hey, you get enough of that on the telly. Available on channel 8 in ReallyBadActing flavours.

Perhaps things will look up when the stars shift, in a bit.
Yes, I sting. Maybe it's time to let that show.

Exeunt

The other side of the Wall.

2005-10-12T23:32:00.000+08:00

One thing constantly on everybody's mind is; just why do they call the dish, "Buddha Jumps Over the Wall" ?

The power of really big nipples.

If it wasn't before, it sure as hell is now, anyway.

But, yes. Your favourite goat, three people and small yappy-type dog, has tasted of it today. And he has spoken to the chef! And he knows now, why.

Gotta love the whole refer-to-self-in-third-person thing.

Smack me if I get off the track again. The famous Chinese dish "Buddha Jumps Over the Wall" is a literal translation. Sadly, the etymology is nothing fun, like it being made from the remnants of a fat bald man that hopped over a wall and went splat.

The key word is Four. I say this because the chef explaining it started by saying, "In Chinese, there are four...", and proceeds to firmly hold up four fingers. He then furrows his brow at them for a good two minutes, mumbling the word "four" a few times in between. It seemed like he was trying to figure out why he was holding up four fingers.

He continues, of course. Four. In Chinese, there are four Kings of seafood, and they are Fish Maw, Shark's Fin, Abalone and Sea Cucumber. I agree the other three are nice enough, but sea cucumber?

Did you know?
That sea cucumbers vomit up their intestines as a self-defense mechanism when threatened?

Ow. Look, it's relevant. It explain why they taste so crap.

But the dish, you see, contains all four of these Kings of Chinese Seafood. And when you cook it properly, with pork and chicken, the aroma that wafts up is supposed to be heavenly.

Now, Buddha is vegetarian. He is One with all things and does not eat any form of meat. Yet even he, upon smelling the...smell I suppose, of the cooking, will go OMGWTFHEALPLZ. And jump over the wall to get at it.

That is why the people cooking it constantly look over their shoulder. Because nobody wants a sweaty fat man smacking into them unawares. .

I finally got to eat it, after having heard about it since I was little. It's a class dish you see, wot with all the fancy ingredients. Costs a pretty penny too. And oh it was...

Nothing spectacular, really. Bit of a letdown after so many years of hype. Sure they were class ingredients, but those are just terribly overpriced in themselves, really. Definitely not wall jumping stuff.

I'd perhaps hop over a small ditch for it. And that's just a maybe.

Geriatric gamers?

2005-10-07T18:32:00.000+08:00

Go. Go. Go.

The family's semi-dysfunctional, and I have since learnt the mechanics of the normal societal family unit. I now know better than to make calls on something based on what my family does.

One of the things common in families are the historical accolades. Grandfathers, believe it or not, were once as young as you and I. And they did things. Some hardly worth the mention, like the setting of a snail aside into the bush to prevent trampling. Others have an impact on the entire extended family.

My condolences to the ones with the last name "Gates". The "any relation" questions they must have to field...

But, yes. Nintendo's replaced the novel. The Gaming Brethren step back in awe as the legendary AWP sniper smoothly swipes his Barracuda pad off the table and strides off into the sunset.

So just how would they go down in the family history sixty years down the road?

At school:
First kid: "Hey I just found out my grandad was the star player in his school team! I'm gonna be just like him!"

Next kid: "Yeah? Well -my- grandad was '50|iDX5|\|4k3', of the pwNz0r clan. Perhaps you've heard of him?"

First kid: "WHOA. m4d ski||z!"

Two old men having coffee in the morning:
Old man 1: "What a lovely morning eh, Ed?"

Old man 2:"Ahh, yes. I remember it was a morning just like this when my Assassin in Ragnarok Online hit 99. Of course I didn't get to actually see much of the morning. Hadn't slept for a week by then. Knocked out clean for the next three days."

Old man 1: "Heh heh. Good times, those were. Oh remember that time we went after Golden Thief Bug..."

...it's gonna be lost on non-Ragnarok players, but you get me.

Gaming penetration on this sort of scale is relatively new, ainnit? And the crack-addiction type MMOs are even newer. We'll just wait and see what happens, I suppose.

Fire up my nose! Uh, I mean...

Never was that good at Counter-Strike, no.

Trick or teat.

2005-10-02T02:29:00.000+08:00

Any number of repugnant men will tell you with conviction that sex transcends cultural barriers. Often, they illustrate this quite nicely by thrusting an extended middle finger into a small circle formed by the digits of the other hand.

Humour does, too. Charlie Chaplin had crowds all over the world roaring way before Rowan Atkinson , who does the same in his dopey Mr Bean persona.

Less discussed is fear. Horror. It's interesting how an American crowd exits the theatre just as shaken as a Japanese crowd, after watching say, The Ring. It seems to be a bond people of the civilized world share. Quite likely insinuated by upbringing and the media, and a rather useless bond, though.

Linking to that is superstition and its buddy...stupidity.

I suppose most people are quite happy with accepting whatever explaination is offered right off the bat. If cannot explain, then is ghost, lah. Perhaps acceptable in certain, rather limited situations, but those are far and few between in our age of technology, connectivity and TEH INTARNET.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Wah scary ah. No, really, the effect is there, and I was quite spooked when I saw it. The curious thing is, it came from a fairly...well-known-type of person as an attachment in a forwarded mail. Why paraphrase the orginal when it does such a lovely job of making itself look stupid?

Formatted for readability. WTF is with the twenty thousand >>>s that come up in forwards?

"The guy in the photo went to the Sundarbans with his friends and he asked 1 of his friends to take his picture in that very place. While his friend was taking the picture he screamed and fainted, 2 days later he died in the medical college.

Doctors said he died because of heart attack. When the photos were exposed, in the last photo there was a lady standing right beside him though friends claim that he was standing alone.

Many people said it is a rumor and the picture is the result of the blessings of latest technology. However, the photo itself is very scary and I'm sure you'll also feel the same way I've felt. Here you go with the photo!!!

A navy officer sent this letter to 13 people and he was promoted.. A business man received this letter and threw it away.. not believing in it.. and he lost everything he had within 13 days It reached a labourer and he distributed it to 13 people he was promoted and all his problems were solved within 13 days

So you must send this e mail to 13 pe ople for something good to happen to you; so people. get sending !! :) don't be lazy.. P/S : Do not send back to the person who send this to you!!! "

Well, the original sender did get something right. I thought it was rather scary, yes. And then it gets to the 13 bits and suddenly a smiley face pops up out of nowhere and ta dah no more scarys.

Ahhh, but I went and counted the addresses the person I'd got it from had sent the mail to. Guess how many?

Just to be sure I was laughing appropriately and would not be found in the morning 13 days later strangled to death by a rubber chicken, I ran the thing through abit, and ta dah!

Bit of explaination. You'll notice the picture is taken in the day, in a shaded forest, with a flash. Because no retard goes tromping around the forest at night taking pictures of himself. That, and the telltale bits of bright sky are up there. It's possibly been digitally altered to have everything but the person darkened.

With the shadows gone, see how Miss Luminous Green, once appearing to eerily float out from the darkness, now has a clear, rather oddly-shaped outline. Almost like she was cookie-cut out from somewhere else.

I decided that look on her face was getting to me, really. If you gotta be a ghost, be a happy ghost!

There we go. Much better.

But why stop there? Today, let your favourite Goat show you how to spook up your own pictures!

First, we take an ordinary picture. Nothing and nobody significant in there. He walked right across as I was trying to get a picture of something else.

Now we do the cast everything else into shadow thing. Sloppily done, because um, hooves don't grip the mouse very well. ...what.

Voila. And now, we select from random pictures, a suitable person to ghostify. She was a lovely girl I knew from Ragnarok Online. Forgive me, Luna. T_T

Sorry about the screwy text. Didn't realize low-ressing the picture for faster loading would make it choppy like that. Live and learn, we do.

Next, we uh, dig her eyes out (sorry Luna!) because that seems to be the quinessential Ghost quality. Also, must dress in white. When was the last time you were scared by a ghost in Hawaiin floral prints?

Spookeh spookeh. Almost there, we are. And for the finishing touches...

Yay, ghost!

It's absolutely the wrong setting for it to be believable of course. Just showing you it's really quite easily done. And that I need to plan better usage of my time.

But meh, if you're interested, send me a picture of yourself for me to put a ghost in.

Amaaaaze your friends.

Luke sum ipse patrem te.

2005-09-27T22:23:00.000+08:00

It's "Luke, I am your father." in Latin.

I was at the launch of a "crime prevention device" on a weekend some time back. That was all I was told before going there. And yes, I spent a while coming up with theories on just wtf it would be.

I've never had much faith in the Singapore Police Force. Personal experiences that would involve too much re-telling. But if they'd come up with something that detects crime and warns people of it...well, I'd eat my hat. Rather placid vow, considering I don't own any hats.

But anyway. Imagine:

Old lady walks down a dark, narrow alley late at night. Her attention is focused on her footing, and she does not see the sinister shadow that stealthily moves up behind on her.

Suddenly, light floods the area. Sirens go off and a stern mechanical voice booms.

"WARNING WARNING. YOU ARE ABOUT TO BE THE VICTIM OF A ROBBERY. THE SUSPECT IS MALE, CHINESE AND LOOKS TO BE IN HIS EARLY TWENTIES. HE HAS A MOLE ON HIS CHIN AND A BADLY DONE TATTOO OF A BUTTERFLY ON HIS RIGHT BUTTOCK. A POLICE CAR IS BEING DISPATCHED TO THE AREA."

I'd be sold on the "Home Team" slogan the police have. Go, police!

But no. It was in fact...well, I'll tell you shortly.

I was intrigued by a trio doing interviews there. One man, two women. The guy was quite large, standing about a head above my 1.75m. Long sleeved shirt and pants, professional looking bag, glasses, and hair neatly gelled back. One of the two females was in what looked to me to be her early thirties, dressed in what I will call immaculate smart casual, with her hair cut in a neat, utilitarian bob. The last could have been a sweet young thing, in her simple Tee and Jeans. Dark circles marred otherwise delicate features, a sure sign of tight deadlines. Some effort had been put into hair colour, but lack of attention had it frizzed and peroxide-ish.

Interesting also was how they took notes. Big Guy had a pad which he wrote in, but infrequently. Matron's pen almost never left hers. I snuck a peek at Matron's pad - she wrote really fast.

She'd gone and invented some kind of new language altogether, it seemed. I know of shorthand, but hers were just a series of wavy line. The sort you do when testing a pen to see if it writes. Talk about pro.

WorkaholicSYT seemed by far the smartest. She had a voice recorder. I was quite amused at the way she shoved it at the important people speaking. Any closer and they'd be tasting it. It wasn't some budget cassette thing (which I have) either. Slim, sexy, sleek and screaming chic. Yes.

The three worked together, all taking notes (with exception of wSYT) as each took their turn to ask questions. All very efficient, very no-nonsense. I stood by the side and leeched their interview. Think I irked Matron in the process - I'm not sure if those were disdainful looks she gave me.

During a lull, I went up to Big Guy and ExcuseMe-d him. Had to try thrice before he heard me, for the sound to travel the distance up to him. He was very nice, though. Yes, they were from the press. He was writing for a Chinese paper, and Matron was the Straits Times. wSYT I didn't catch. My first thought was she was apprenticing under Matron, but they worked quite independently. Bug Guy spoke very well, and considering he writes for a newspaper in Chinese, all I can say is - outclassed.

Ah, the press. That land of grey paper and ink that is known for its crazy pace, but oh-so-prestigious.

And here are the writeups on the event:

--

Story 1 -

"Thieves" drive home crime prevention message

Two thieves will greet drivers pulling into the multi-storey carpark at Block 126A, Bukit Merah View.

They are not the real deal, mind you, just life-size posters.

The two cut-outs and a sensor-activated lightbox with the anti-theft message "Don't Tempt Me", are part of a pilot project launched yesterday to remind motorists not to leave their CashCards and valuables in their vehicles.

One poster is placed at the entrance of the carpark. The other is on the wall to the left of the ramp connecting the first deck to the second.

When a motorist drives up the second deck, a motion detector on the ceiling near the ramp will activate the lightbox installed at the other end of the deck. The message "Don't Tempt Me" will flash for five seconds, reminding drivers to practise crime prevention and not leave things to chance.

The project was launched by the MP for Tanjong Pagar GRC, Ms Indranee Rajah. It was initiated by Bukit Merah West Neighbourhood Police Centre of Clementi Police Division headquarters after a spate of thefts from vehicles at the same carpark.

Some residents contacted said the project was a good idea.

Madam Judy Tan, 48, a Citizen-On-Patrol volunteer, said: "We hope it will work."

Story 2 -

Making Bukit Merah View a safer place

Prepare to be flashed when you drive in to the multi-storey car park at Block 126A Bukit Merah View.

It’s a new crime prevention sensor, launched on 17 September at the function hall beside Block 126A. Imagine driving into the car park at night, after a long day’s work. Your vehicle activates the sensor, and a dark wall lights up with a picture of someone breaking into a car. Bold text reminds you to lock your car – and not leave valuables behind.

It’s a reminder tired drivers often need. Nobody wants their car broken into – but sometimes we forget not to encourage thieves.

This project was an effort by Clementi Police Division to reduce crime. At the launch, SUPT Anthony Ng, Commander of the Division, also presented certificates of appointment to the neighbourhood COPs – Citizens on Patrol. They are members of Bukit Merah View Zone “B” RC, and patrol the neighbourhood at least once a week in groups of about ten people. Patrols last about two hours, and anything suspicious is reported to the police.

NPCC groups from Crescent Girls’ School and Gan Eng Seng School came to look after the exhibits and answer any questions residents had. Mr Chua, OC of GESS NPCC, felt it was a great chance for the troops to get exposure, and gain experience talking to the public.

Everyone was involved. As Ms Indranee Rajah, guest of honour for the event said, “Tackling crime is not just a police affair. They cannot be everywhere. Everyone must do their part.”

--

One I can only assume was by Matron, and the other is my version that hasn't yet gone through Mr Ancob's editing. Even taking into account the different focuses due to publication, I'd say I have a long way to go before I get that sort of rapid-fire efficiency in my writing. Something a lot of people fail to realize, and I've only done recently, is that plain, unbiased and effective journalistic writing can be the hardest thing.

And I'm not sure I want to lose the eccentric bit of my writing, or am happy about what I've already lost.

But, yes. Was interesting to be able to see what someone a few leagues above myself wrote about the same event.

Let us not forget the issue at hand:
That is one sad crime prevention device.

Its been a long week.

2005-09-24T01:05:00.000+08:00

Comparisons, comparisons.

One looks back and thinks: sure I had to work for thankless bosses, crap pay and put up with the scum of today's youth. But at least back then I had a definite number of hours to work, fixed off days, and overtime pay. Was it really so bad?

Yes. Yes it was. Dead end job, possibility of me snapping and taking a chair to one of the kids, and lastly, I wouldn't have been able to bring you this breaking news.

English is supposed to be your second language if you're anything other than Caucasian. Bit different here, where the ones that go to school learn English on a first-ish basis. And a good lot of us go to school, no?

Most do alright in the language. They come out of school with a good working knowledge of the language. Yes, "working knowledge", though many, and I do not exclude myself, think they know English.

Oh, and our official National Language is Malay.

We get along well enough. Not too many Yeats, Dickens or Austens around, but we get along.

Now, it may be presumptuous of me, but I would like to think if you're a qualified doctor, a politician, and hold numerous positions of authority - the standards have to be ever so slightly higher.

We're not asking him to pen sonnets to the Merlion. Just to know the difference between "its" and "it's".

A fair number of people make the same mistake. Most think the two are interchangeable. On an unrelated note, most are high school students.

I wouldn't be bringing this up, but for that the person in question once reviewed a piece of copy both Mr Ancob and I wrote, edited and proofread the hell out of. He put in, let's call them "questionable" changes. He also told us what a bad job we did - that we had poor grammar and sentence structure - and made a note for future submissions to be better efforts.

Yes sir, we will improve. Thank you for you're invaluable feedback.

If I don't say anything in two weeks, BadAss man's got me.

Culling the herd.

2005-09-20T00:18:00.000+08:00

The problem with not reading the news is, by the time something everyone's been talking about reaches you, it's become sort of... Olds. And you can't possibly comment without looking like a bandwagon-jumper either way.

But yes, I've just heard two bloggers here have been arrested and charged with sedition, for posting racially inflammatory comments online. They're out on $10,000 bail, now. If convicted, they face up to three years in jail, or $5,000 in fines, or both.

Interesting, on several counts.

"Bloggers", as we know the term, have been in focus so much and so often for...well, getting into shit, that it seems anyone who gets into trouble for saying something online is now a Blogger. One of the arrested duo did post his worthless thoughts on his weblog, but the other one was posting in a forum. A doggie forum. So convenient, though. Got in trouble for saying something online? Must be a Blogger.

I have trouble enough finding time and things of sufficient interest to you three people and small yappy-type dog to write about. Well, fine, just about anything can be made interesting and I'm just lazy. But these people are of a different breed altogether. Stirring up racial angst on a frickin' dog-lover's site?

You would think. You would. That people learn. Our superior cognitive ability is supposed to be what distinguishes us from the monkeys, our closest cousins. How many times have people been shot down for this or that involving their Blogs, for chrissake. The last I wrote about it wasn't that long ago, and there've been plenty since then.

But these people are still of the HAY I M ON D INTARNAT NO 1 KNO WHU I M HUR HUR mentality.

They deserve it. Yes, they do. I'm with the gah'men on this one. We all get angry with other people. Some of us more often than others. And then we pick up whatever we can to justify that anger. In a state of rage, a lot of name calling, mental or not, can happen. But we don't really mean them, and apologize afterwards to have great make-up sex.

There really is no way to have emotions run that rampant when you're typing something. Or to have great make-up sex, but let's stay on topic here.

Screw the fines. Lock them up, I say. I think quite enough has been done to champion this "freedom of speech" thing. Amazing place, America, and some damned fine things come from it. But the sheer number of things people can get away with there, under "freedom of speech". It is nothing Singapore needs.

They can have freedom of speech when they learn how to behave like a human being. I'm not even asking them to be good company, you know. Just shutting the fuck up about their perceived superiority would be good.

Nicholas Lim Yew, 25, and Benjamin Koh Song Huat, 27. Part of the ethnic majority in Singapore. Surprise, surprise. Not so tough now, are we? Too bad you'll probably be able to pay the fines - and that the judge probably will give you pricks a fine.

Would be lovely to see what the Malay and Indian community in prison think about your witty, witty comments online. I'm sure they'd want to...exchange views.

Knackerism.

2005-09-17T23:26:00.000+08:00

I'm come a long way from that young indolent who thought waking up at seven in the morning was the most ridiculous thing in the world.

Yes. Now I actually have to do it, you see.

It's been another wake/work/sleep week, and boy will you be thrilled to hear about it!

...If you're that peculiar sort that appreciates the nuances of watching paint dry.

In the abscence of my usual lack of wit, here is a picture of a goat.

Got potential, that one. Remember, all credits go to Songdog.net . His goat, his glory.

The Y-Files.

2005-09-15T01:43:00.000+08:00

Was a lovely movie, if you've caught it.

Mel Gibson get electrocuted in his bathtub, wearing make-up and having just waxed his legs. And when he comes to, he can hear what women around him are thinking.

...I need 01 x Makeup Kit, 01 x Wax Strip, and...uh, to fill up a bucket of water. HDB, lah. Sure we could have a bathtub. Just take out some of the luxury, space consuming items. Like the refrigerator. And the stove.

So no, we're not seeing other people anymore. As of a few hours ago, we have lost the ability to perceive other people. Invisible, you lot are.

Screw Vanity. Woman, thy name is Whacked.

...but in a lovely sort of way.

Work-around.

2005-09-13T18:00:00.000+08:00

...around the clock, perhaps.

Been quite busy. I do apologize. Twelve hours at the office doesn't leave me fit for much else when I get back.

But, yes. The pictures, they are out. Now, I know I promised nice pictures of our beloved Ministers of Parliament and such. But I had a niggling doubt (of the non-racist variety), and consulted Mr Ancob. After all, they're more or less his pictures.

He explained it quite nicely. In the interest of readability and flavour, I have distilled it down to this:

"You want to put pictures of gah'men on your site. Never die before ah?"

Lovely thing, self-censorship. I did concur, however. So you'll have to take my word on Dr Lily Neo being very, very pretty.

...Really.

...No, really.

Pity. The profile picture link on the previous entry does her no justice. But if I do put anything up here, I might get...

...BadAss man after me. I never did find out his name, but look: no other words are going to come to mind when you see him. He could do anything, and people would never question it.

BadAss man shoves past a 120kg, African-American bodybuilder.

Bodybuilder: "Yo what up wit dat dawg?! You looking to star..."

BadAss man slowly turns around. He looks questioningly at the bodybuilder.

Bodybuilder: "...sir."

He was one of the bodyguards there. Utter respect. One does not manage that grim set to the jaw without years of practice. Of course, he could be cheating and have been born with it. Probably flipped off the doctor as he slid out, too. Badass.

What, you think you could take him? That's just because you're not seeing him in the proper context:

Told you. Badass.

So you'll have to make do with generic cute kid.

Hey don't diss it. You think getting these are easy?

And of course, must have pretty girls.

The beautiful Kelly, runner-up of yet another Idol-type contest, Project Superstar. She does sing very well. And is very pretty.

And there's Kelly with the winner of that contest, Kelvin! ...otherwise known as Wei Liang.

I must speak up at this point. Even in newspapers, I see the phrase. Why is she "Kelly", and he "Kelvin, better known as Wei Liang"? It's a trend, you know. That Chinese male singers go by their Chinese names, while female singers take on all sorts of bopsy monikers. "Apple" and "Fish" are up there. I've heard of someone called "Hymen", though that's unconfirmed.

...why?

But they're very close, as far as I could tell. It was oddly sweet. Cameramen would go up for pictures, and Kelly would tell Kelvin their pictures were being taken. Kelvin would then flash a very sweet smile at a nearby potted plant, and Kelly would put her arm around him and gently swivel his head to the right direction.

I must also mention that Kelvin came very close, several times, to being photographed groping Kelly's boob. Though I will not condemn others for things I would very much do myself, it might be something they want to look into. Just wouldn't look good on the camera, no matter how much we understand that it's an accident. Or two. ...Or nine.

It couldn't have been easy for either of them, you know? Whoever won the contest was going to be called names. Kelly could dress up, sing and dance. Which she did. And people would say that was why she won. Kelvin was blind. An against-all-odds sort of hero. And people would say that's why he won. As it is, I've already had a friend say quite firmly to me, "You do know he only won because he's blind, right?" .

Well, I let it go. They seem to be doing very well together. Perhaps some happy relationship will come out of this. You go, Kelvin! ...or, Wei Liang.

Well, maybe he doesn't need my well wishes.

The other pretty, pretty girl is...Eve, I think. Runner-up of...another contest. It begins to get out of hand.

She's from Taiwan, and also sings quite nicely. I felt a little sorry for her initially. You see, the three of them were sitting quite innocently at the side of the stage. You could go right up to them, like three other photographers and myself did.

Then...they were noticed.

The agents and organizers eventually pried the bloodthirsty crowd of schoolgirls, bengs and aunties off. Then they allowed no one onto the little platform where the performers were seated. Through all this, Eve was...untouched. No requests for pictures, no sneaky sneaky pictures being taken. She looked a little sad, to me. So, being one of the few that could get onto the platform, I decided to make her feel a bit more special by taking pictures of her.

Pretty pretty.

Turns out there wasn't really a need to. Though a fair bit of the crowd started leaving right after Kel&Kel finished their last song, quite a number stayed, intrigued by the sweet young thing coming on stage.

She sang, and though it wasn't magic or anything, she was pretty good. And very photogenic. A group of schoolgirls collaborated to chime, "You're very cute!" after her song, and that cheered her up considerably.

I thought there was some surreptitious checking out on both my side and hers, both before and after I'd taken her picture. But of course, quite probably my deluded self. Her agent was better looking than me.

And way back then, I had a girlfriend.

...It wasn't a terribly interesting day, and not put across in a terribly interesting way.

Story of my life, that is.

Whining noises.

2005-09-08T22:00:00.000+08:00

No, nothing much to see here I'm afraid.

It hasn't been one of my better weeks. I figure I should list it, so I have some sort of benchmark. A whine-o-metre, if you will:

- A truncated weekend. Sure, I got to see Lee Kuan Yew and pretty, pretty girls. To one, I was paparazzi scum, and to the other, "that ogling weirdo with the dinky camera". And I suffered the most devastatingly patronizing laugh at one of my attempts at humour I have ever heard. It will haunt me for some time.

- A brief rest, and the week starts proper, with my going to the dentist. He proceeds to drill my face off. Dentist-chair pain is unique. You feel intense, immense pain from a tiny drill that makes a horrible, horrible noise. While staring up at unblinking eyes and semi-invasive lights, alien-autopsy style. Then you pay an obscene amount of money for that pain, and thank them profusely. My heart flutters at the thought of the impending wisdom-tooth extraction.

- I ask her out for a drink in one of my rare, free-a-little-earlier evenings. We sit down with nice beer on a cool night with lovely weather, at an intriguing Jamaican-themed pub with soft reggae music playing.

And she tells me she thinks we should "see other people".

- We submitted a near-completed copy, that really looks quite nice, of something that has dragged on about three months and counting. At the review meeting, we go over the twenty thousand changes that must be made. I'm not complaining about the work. It's there, and I'll do it. But nineteen thousand of the changes look to be made by a geriatric monkey. Who only speaks French. Three other projects must also be done.

They were all due, of course, two weeks ago.

Just the major bits, those. The week is quite far from over, as what can happen in a day shows. The Saturday should be spent catching up with what we've got to do. And some event is coming up on Sunday, though I don't know if I'll have to go.

It's a vicious cycle of coffee, cigarettes and ploughing through rather thankless tasks, right now. I'd like to get smashed silly, but as usual, am running on broke. And not too many...fine, no one to do it with. So I play Maple Story when I get back. Same face-numbing effect, but no trying-to-walk-in-straight-line fun. And zilch chance of drunken debauchery.

Well, not that the last was ever quite possible. Can't pull that off, no.

Oh, I fully understand there are people in the world living far, far worse lives than I am. A better person would square his shoulders and start setting everything in place.

I make whining noises. Like the dentist drill.

So there you have it! The new site starts, virtually indistinguishable from the original. Ceterus paribus, except the address and the title/sub-title. Don't diss it, you have no idea how long it took to come up with those four words. Though, we should not rule out the possibility that other people would be able to do it in two minutes, and I'm just incompetent.

No fanfare, no champagne, no confetti. Just a sort of...whimper.

I apologize.

The little boy that couldn't.

2005-09-05T01:21:00.000+08:00

No
more worrying about things to do no
more weighing should and could no
more impatient waiting by the door no
more what i did what did you do

No
more planning and mock-rehearsing
the silly things you'd do at the wedding
the thank-you-for-comings and songs you'd sing
that you never told her about

None.

Amazing what can happen in so short a time, isn't it?

Well, there you go. I'm ambiguously single and available now, it seems. Affected me more than it should.

Than I thought it could.

Revamp! Revamp!

2005-09-04T20:08:00.000+08:00

"Thinking about changing the name, we are."

Bah. You people need to watch Eddie Izzard. Then I could just drop references and you'll all be laughing. Saves me a ton of work, that way. The above quote, for example, is hilarious.

No, really.

But, yes. Just as a brand of dog food for small yappy-type dogs made it big by changing its name from "Mr Dog" to "Cesar", so shall TehUneducated evolve. The new name will be...

TehGoat.

...what.

Goats are unique in a way few people see. Dogs bark. Cats meow. Cows moo. Notice the direct working of the actual sound into the word. But the goat! It does not emit anything that sounds like bleat, does it now?

Meh. Mehhhh. Mehhhhhhh.

That was an example, in case you had no idea what a goat sounds like, you see.

So there we go! Cute, horny, and sometimes ornery. Eats anything, too. Fuck with a frying pan if that's not me in two sentences.

Besides, TehUneducated is a mouthful to handle. Not the sort of name that rolls off the tongue, no. And I'm quite tired of trying to explain it as the running gag I mean it to be rather than some sort of complex I have.

Please adjust your television sets accordingly. It will very soon be tehgoat.blogspot.com that will entertain you with his high-pitched whining noises.

Verily, I say unto you:

Meh.

Pseudo-celebrity prelude.

2005-09-03T22:41:00.000+08:00

And yes, the job begins to pay off.

There was a Walk-A-Jog today. Yes, another one. This was for the People's Children's Fund, and held at Bishan Park. I'd like to meet the first person who came up with fusing the organization of a mass walk and charity. Don't get me wrong, I think the cause is very noble. But do you see the connection?

It was organized by two Town Councils, and of course the Ministers for Parliament of each had to be there - including Minister Mentor Lee Kuan Yew!

I was a little hyped about it in the morning. In a few hours time, I would get to see the Man himself, in person. I have declared and been lambasted for my lack of interest in politics, but this was the Man. Forget that silly British man who tripped over us in 1819 - he just dug up the clay. Mr Lee was the potter.

...Or so the history books have me believe.

So, yes. I got to see him in person. Or rather, bits of him. From the moment he stepped off the car, he was mobbed. Singapore really loves him, it seems. I found it very amusing how the people I spoke to all referred to him as "EmmEmm". It's like he's lost his name. Mr Lee will do fine, thank you very much. EmmEmm indeed.

They also pronounce the Minster for the Environment's name, "Yakult". I don't know for sure, but is that how you pronounce something spelled "Yaacob"? It was cute the way one official said, "Yes, then Yakult will arrive... . Uh, sorry, I meant, Dr Yakult." I think she seriously was worried I'd go over and tell him.

I also had the most spectacular of my patented Fall-Flat jokes today. I was introduced to a rather prominent person.

PP: "...and yes, they had the place prepared a few days ago by pouring sand onto the grass to prevent it from becoming muddy."

Me: "Indeed? That's quite interesting! Do you know how much sand was involved, sir?"

PP: "No, you'll have to ask them about that. Why, though?"

Me: "Well I just thought it would be a good thing to say, you know. 'And they prepared the grounds by pouring twenty thousand tonnes of sand into it!' ."

PP: "Ha. Ha. Ha. I don't think they'll want you to say that."

He literally said "Ha. Ha. Ha." . It was possibly the most deprecating laughter I've ever heard. The irony is, I really did think it was a good idea to talk about the preparation of that field. Shows they thought about and put effort into it, you see.

I think he got where he was by laughing at his potential competition for promotion. That could stop a randy elephant dead in its tracks. Respect.

During the actual walk, the phrase cheebye Singaporeans, came to mind. Mostly the aunties, really. Repeatedly, I was shoved, jostled and smacked about while trying to take a good picture. They'd just barge into, and past you.

I don't get it. It's happened before, my being stuck in a huge packed crowd. And the pieces of shit who push, shove and poke you in the buttox with a sharp stick are always aunties. Do they all hit some kind of magic age where their brain just snaps and goes, "Right. I'm pushing 50 with a voice like nails on chalkboard, and there's no way I could look good if I tried. Fuck this - It's my way or the highway."

And then they put on the motorcycle helmets, get on their Harleys, light cigars and ride off.

Just unbelievably self-centred, some of them. There I was, being held back at arm's length by security people. I stand on my toes, hold my breath and focus the lens, waiting for a good moment to snap. It's coming. It's coming. IT'S...

-jab-

...

-jabjab pat arm-

I turn back to see if it was Mr Ancob wanting my attention for something important.

"eH boy your arm ah, can eksew me not?!!11," says the auntie whose face I turn into, pushing a camera into my face.

I gave her a look that hopefully conveyed the exact number of painful things she could do to herself before I ekskewed her and got back to trying to do my job, muttering under my breath.

And, yes, the pseudo-celebrities! I was an arm's length from Kelly Poon and Kelvin, the Project Superstar winners! Not really into these "Idol" spinoff winners in general. I am unable to continue eating my food if I happen to see Sylvester from the last one. He just rubs me the wrong way for some reason.

But Kelly very pretty.

And Kelvin has my respect and admiration. I couldn't imagine a life blind. He wins a singing competition in front of 8, 000 people. My metaphorical hat off to you, Kelvin.

I could have gotten a picture taken with them, yes. As many aunties did. But I just figured: if I start now, where's it going to stop? Screw it.

So that's a brief wrap of the day. When the film gets developed I'll try to wrangle and get it up, specially for you three people and small yappy-type dog who read this. Because I Care.

Inside joke, sorry.

I will conclude by saying I quite possibly have all my priorities in the wrong place. I go to an event like that, with a proper pass and everything. I am to take pictures, and write it up later. Mr Lee Kuan Yew, the man who helped build Singapore, is there. I am close enough to him to make out the leaf stuck in the back of his head. And the one thing that sticks out in my mind is...

...Dr Lily Neo very pretty, lah.

"Wider, please."

2005-08-31T00:42:00.000+08:00

The human mind is capable of great things. Love. Friendship. Loyalty. Compassion.

Then there's dentists.

We've all had our share of misguided childhood ambitions -

--
Kindergarten teacher: "So Tommy, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

Tommy: "A Fireman so I can help save people and put out fires!"

Kindergarten teacher: "Very good. Jane?"

Jane: "A policewoman so I can catch the bad guys and lock them up forever!"

Kindergarten teacher: "Doesn'treallyworklikethatiftheyhaveagoodlawyerbut Very good! Tessa?"

Tessa: "A reporter so I can talk to people and write their stories!"

Kindergarten teacher: "Wow, that's nice! And you, Mark?"

Mark: "I wanna be a dentist so I can earn lots of money by causing people immense pain and trauma hyukhyuksnort!"

Kindergarten teacher: "...wtf."
--

It's not like, say, photographers. With photography you can discover you have an eye for taking nice pictures, work at getting better and go professional. Dentistry is something you decide on right off the bat. Well I suppose you can discover you have a good talent for causing people pain and enjoying it. That, or discover you really, really like teeth. Not a very healthy thing, either way.

And they lie. They do. It's a bit sweeping to say they all do, but in my experience, yes. The words constantly on the tip of their tongue are "root canal". Because it's one of the more expensive and painful options.

--
Patient: "I've got this..."

Dentist: "Root canal."

Patient: "...bit of a gum bleed. Are you sure that's necessary?"

Dentist: "Oh, yes. Never know what's causing those things. Could be very serious, yes. Better have a root canal just to be safe."

Patient: "Well, I suppose you know better. Alright, then. I've also got..."

Dentist: "Sounds like another root canal, that is."

Patient: "...slight runny nose do you think it will affect the dril..what?"

Dentist: "Oh, nothing. I was clearing my throat."
--

Follow one around long enough and you'll see him at McDonald's ordering, "A Big Mac with extra root ca...uh, lettuce, I mean."

Having a spot of trouble with my wisdom tooth growing out, I went to the dentist about a year ago. It was growing at a very bad angle, she said. What was absolutely necessary was to have an operation where they would cut my gum to pieces, smash up that tooth and extract it. And because I had this weird tooth structure in general, they would need to...

I forget the details. She was very persuasive though, and I figured saving up that close to two thousand dollars for the operation was imperative. It was a very fortunate thing that Miss Procrastination and I have a dirty little affair going on. The damned tooth grew out fine.

Of course, she quite probably was a kind, benevolent dentist who saw a problem that has even now yet to happen, and was acting in my best interests. Five years down the road, that impudent tooth may have me drinking my meals in immense pain.

"Medium-rare steak. I know it's an unusual request, but once you're done cooking it, could you be so kind as to toss the lot in the blender on 'Liquify' for three minutes before serving? Thank you very much."

But just imagine the things she wanted to do to my mouth! With me looking right up at her, adding my nail marks to the twenty thousand others by the side of the chair. And I just know she'll keep giving me that disapproving look and say,

"Wider, please."

The Day's Takings - Finale.

2005-08-28T13:54:00.000+08:00

So you see, the secret to happiness is really very simple: set yourself targets that are quite easy to reach, or so metaphysical no one can tell.

I've got the last batch of pictures up, and it's nowhere near the end of the month. Eh?

My next goal is to be born rich and achingly good looking.

But, yes, on with the show. The previous entry ended at about the early evening. The day's fringe activities were over and the performers had packed it up and gone. It was a little weird to see Butterfly Man without his wings. He was fantastic as Butterfly Man...so much that he even looked a bit bug-ish to me without the costume. Zero offence, merely observation. And hey, looking like a bug isn't at all a bad thing. I think.

And so, the beginning of the end -

5.30 pm: Main stage show.

This is where, through the video link on the huge array of screens I was telling you about, we had the Parade and performances at the Padang telecast LIVE OMG. The phrase "MAKE SOME NOISE" started on its arduous journey of abuse here. By the end of the night, it was in a shivering heap, muttering incoherently to itself.

So they switch from area to area - Padang, Marina, Tampines, Jurong and us. At each point, the MCs of the place would get everyone to MAKE SOME NOISE. The people of each venue also had to do that Singapore Workout-ish dance. The people of Yishun were quite good sports. Most gave it a shot.

The Ministers of Parliament for the divisions that were zoned for this celebration then arrived. On trishaws, no less. They were welcomed by many cute children waving flags.

Yes, the children were actually pretty cute. Specially selected for cuteness, you see.

We watched the President arrive at the Padang, and as is customary, all sang the National Anthem. It has been an observation of mine that, besides the schooling kids who have to sing it every morning, no one else seems to know it. Or willing to actually sing it, anyway.

This was followed by the usual slew of performances and song-singing. And then OMG TEH AIR DISPLAY. The MCs announcing it sounded very excited, you see. I am earnestly trying to get that across. What the air display was, though:

It was over in about three seconds. But it was a very exciting three seconds, mind.

7.15 pm: Ha. Ha.

The Mobile Column, that assortment of huge Army and Civil-Dee vehicles, starts driving past the Padang. We get to watch a little, but they're driving on to where we are anyway. So we watch a short video about the founding of Singapore, which is about the same material as what I covered in the Singapore entry but very much more proper. They had a cartoon of Sang Nila Utama sailing and seeing the shadow of a lion and everything.

Then we had...Laughter Therapy. This is where things got a bit weird. They invite some sort of qualified professional up on the stage, and she tries to lead the huge crowd there at Yishun through the various different types of laughter. There must have been about six or seven, but damned if I can remember any one. Her laughter was a bit forced, I felt. Sort of how it would be if someone told you to make laughing noises when your dog has just died.

But yes, the crowd was a sport. They...tried. I just retreated to my happy place when they were doing it.

You'll notice I haven't got many pictures up to this point. The crowd seated in front of the stage was about the size of a football field and a half you see. I'd been out at the perimetres all this time. Frustrated with the lack of opportunities to...shoot things, I hit upon the bright idea of going around looking for happy family/cute kid pictures. Those are always useful. Got space to fill? Put in a cute kid!

Not too many photogenic kids around there though. It could be my lack of skill but hey, what are the odds of that? I didn't get too many usable ones for publication I'm afraid. Some nice ones for my own collection, though...

I thought this was an awesome shot of a happy family. Notice, however, that the young boy is surreptitiously giving me the finger with his left hand. Must...resist...Photoshop...

And this gem. I just find this one unbearably adorable for some reason.

I found out one can get away with quite a lot if he walks around dressed all spiffy and has a camera on a string around his neck, with an official-type bag. Some sort of primal code in the DNA makes people automatically pose happily when confronted with the above conditions. The problem lies in the ones that aren't yet old enough for that to kick in. Quite depressing when a kid runs away from you screaming for his mommy.

Adults, though. No problem. I felt this was real sweet. They were just seated by themselves on a mat, quite content to let the young people do the screaming and shouting while they enjoyed each other's company.

I thought this made a meaningful picture, too. Little girl holding the book like that, with "The Future is Ours to Make". Very nice. As opposed to a picture of, say, some golden-haired ah beng holding it. Then it would be depressing. True, but depressing. Please to ignore the...simian-looking little boy.

It was a film camera, you see. And Mr Ancob had said earlier on I shouldn't need to worry about running out of film. We settled upon contacting each other via our mobile phones should we need anything, like updates, film and sanity.

Ah, so many things seem like such good ideas at the time.

Because at this point I'd run out of film going balistic on happy families, you see. And if you live in Singapore, you'll know how mobile networks tend to jam up on major occasions like Christmas and New Year's Eve, because everyone needs to tell everyone else to have a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. It's like they'll forget to be Merry or Happy without being told to.

I wouldn't have imagined it. But apparently we also tell each other to have a Happy National Day, lah.

So the networks were jammed. Twenty thousand redials and all I get is a NETWORK BUSY KTHX signal each time. I was...stuck. I couldn't even go talk to people about the show, because I'd need pictures of them to use so you'll know they aren't figments of my imagination. I wandered around a bit trying to find the pink polo-tee and safari hat. No luck. I was just going to have to sit back and...absorb the atmosphere. Most of the subsequent pictures are Mr Ancob's.

A bit more of my sanity was ground away as they played "Reach out for the skies" again. Then, fireworks. Whee, fireworks. We've all seen them but we just can't get enough of the pretty pretty lights, can we?

This one was different, too. Because the firework cannons were in a cordoned area barely a hundred metres away from the crowd. You could see it shooting up from the ground, into the sky. The organizers were right bastards, too. No warning. And firework detonations, as I learned that night, are loud.

See, see. So close. When it started, the more skitterish kids also started crying. And you saw this wave of people scooting backwards. It really was quite loud. And at that distance, you also find out what goes up must come down. Wot, you thought the fireworks just disappeared nicely into the air? The spent magnesium fluttered down gently as grey, burnt-out flakes.

I actually watched with much amusement as a not burnt-out flake fluttered down onto somebody's back. Some furious swatting by her husband ensued.

They also produce a lot of smoke. Many a handkerchief was whipped out and fastened over nose, there.

Taking pictures of them is very tricky, Mr Ancob told me. You have to use a long shutter to get a nice effect instead of a blob of light. But then you'll also run the risk of getting these. Little fire-worm things which don't look very nice, do they?

A better example of the fireworks, which were really quite nice.

But of course, Mr Ancob, with 44 years experience in the industry, shines through. Those are just spectacular pictures. Front cover material.

AND I WAS OUT OF FILM.

But, yes. The fireworks were the end of the official concert. This was about 8.30 pm. They sang a few more songs, and the MCs closed the video link with the Padang. People started leaving, despite being told the concert wasn't over yet. There was still a sort of post-parade concert lined up, with fabulous artistes from all over, and the Mobile Column was on its way there.

They were still leaving, though.

A good many came back, however, once the post-parade concert started. Once again, NO FILM OMG. Let me try to do it justice.

"Yishun, do you want MOOOOORE?!", said the MCs. Very irritating. The crowd responded, but not all that enthusiastically, and heck, it wasn't like they were going to say, "Oh. You don't. Well we'll just call the whole thing off, then. Good night." .

Performer 1: Reshmonu
I gathered he's a huge thing in Malaysia. His segment was titled "Yishun Explosion" on the programme sheet. As cheesy as it sounds, it was quite explosive. He was this Indian chap with long dreadlocks and he rapped the crowd to rousing rhapsody. Very energetic, he was, and it rubbed off onto the crowd. He overdid the "tell the crowd they are wonderful people no matter what" bit a little, but he was one of the better ones. Everyone MADE SOME NOISE when he asked them to. They drew the line at PUT CHOOR HANDS UP IN DEE AIR, though.

Yes yes, we DO WANT MORE already. The MCs came out and asked again you see. Just to be sure. To verify that we did indeed want more, they actually went and divided the crowd into three sections, and got each one to MAKE SOME NOISE. Quite pleased with themselves, they then brought out the next performers.

Performer 2: Twins
The famous HongKong singers, yes. I thought they were quite horrible, but that's just me. Their selling point was sort of "hey, if one sweet-faced, young nubile girl singing bubblegum-pop can sell records, you can't go wrong with TWO". Maybe I'm just prejudiced, because I don't like that sort of music.

But they have no excuse for saying "Hello" about 17 times through their performance.

When they first came out onto the stage they said hello to the crowd you see. Screamscream, shoutshout. Said it about five times. Each. Then they start singing, and you know how there are little lapses in songs where it's just music and no singing? Some singers will takes the chance to smile and say a quick Thank You. Reshmonu had all kinds of things going on there. Well, damned if the Twins didn't fill each pause for breath with a Hello.

It was said very sweetly, of course. Wasn't sweet enough to take that stamp off their foreheads for me, though. Rhymes with "akimbo".

I'm not sure if it was me, the sound system, or the short Singaporean tongue which I am also occasionally guilty of. But I am prepared to swear that the female MC came out, effusively thanked them for their crap performance, and then declared that the Tits had a present for Singapore - a birthday song! Please, a round of applause for a birthday song from the Tits.

She'd meant Twins, of course. It was probably me. Not that it wouldn't have been just as appropriate, considering there were...

Ok, never mind.

Interlude: Mobile Column.
Remember that Mobile Column that was making its way down to the various Heartland venues from the Padang? Well, they were here! The on-screen camera panned to a view of the first vehicle, a jeep, pulling into the street with its hazard lights on.

...and stayed that way for about a half hour.

No kidding. This was one of the bigger screw-ups of the event. The huge column of Army and Civil-Dee vehicles stretching a few streets pulled up...and waited for about a half hour. The people got fidgety. Then they started leaving. And like the cliched domino effect, just about all of them started leaving. The traffic light junction to cross the street to get out was sardines-in-a-can packed. Traffic itself was backed up for two streets and counting. And this was all because?

Why, because the column had gotten there too early, of course. And we all know utter chaos might ensue from not following the time-table, so there really is not other choice than to sit and wait. With "Reach out for the skies" slowly grinding...

I think the song was the real reason for the mass exodus. Ugh.

To be fair, it was the only major hiccup that day. And as an unintended side effect, it showed the real National Day spirit, at least to me. Because in that ghastly, half-hour pile up of people and traffic, not a single car horn sounded. We're talking about Singaporean drivers who will flip you off for cutting into their lane, sometimes. I thought the lack of even one horn was quite amazing.

It was entirely possible that they simply weren't quite sure about horning a tank, or a five-ton truck full of soldier with guns. But let's be positive, here.

Finally, the time-slot was up, and they started moving. Good stuff, really.

You car. Me tank. You horn, me make small error in driving and crush you like insect. Questions?

The Army's Dial-A-Missile delivery service.

The Army's very advanced remote detonation machine. They placed a mine, then got the machine out to go detonate it you see. The MC warned the people to cover their ears, because there would be a very loud explosion.

What actually happened sort of went like this:

Machine comes out. Trundles to the mine. Carefully, they get it into position. zrrrnk zrrrnk.
Then it is time for it to detonate the mine omg. zrrnk zrrrrrrrrnk. poke.

Nothing.

zrrrnk zrrrrrrrrnk. poke.

Nothing.

zrrrrrrrrrrrrnk zrrrrrrrrrrrrrnk. POKE.

Awkward pause. And then the man in the bomb suit comes out and collects both the machine and the mine and they speed off. I leave you to draw your own conclusions.

The Civil Defence team was not to be outdone! They actually put up a mock building and set the thing on fire.

Using advanced fire-fighting technology, the MC tells us, they will rush in, rescue hostages, and then put out the fire!

What actually happened:

Fwoom. Fire.

Bee borr bee borr bee borr evacuate poor hapless sod very good now put out the fire.

Pssssssssst. Burnburn. Psssssst. Burn. Pssssssssst Burnburnburn.

...burnburnburn.

They never actually put the thing out. The MC happily announced that they'd rescued two hostages and put out the fire as the Civil-Dee team sped off on their scooters, leaving the construct to burn itself out.

Performer 3: Tanya Chua
She's a bit of a local celebrity. In fact, the only local celebrity that was in the post-parade concert. For National Day. A bit of an irony, I felt. Not many people were left by the time she came on. They'd all buggered off during that half-hour holdup, you see. But she bravely went on and sang some lovely songs, followed by a short dialogue session with the MCs.

This second bit reaffirms my belief that something was wrong with the sound system. Once again, I am prepared to swear this is what I heard.

MC: "So Tanya, we hear you're picking up a new instrument. What is it?"

Tanya: "Drugs."

MC: "Ah! That's very exciting! So you'll be doing it for your future recordings?"

Tanya: "Yes, I'll be playing the drugs. It's very new to me."

She meant drums, but it took a bit of figuring out for me. Perhaps I need an ear exam.

Performer 3: Nicholas Tse
For those not in the know, Nicholas is a pretty major-league HongKong celebrity. My theory is he's immensely popular because he has a kick-ass Chinese name. Xie Ting Feng. It just radiates cool, if you speak the language.

Doesn't hurt that he's achingly cute, too.

But he was wonderful. The organizers, the canny bastards, kept him for last so they'd be guranteed at least a crowd of fanboys. Or girls, as the case might be. I don't normally hold with mainstream popularity, as in the case of the Ti...I mean, Twins. But I could see why he's so well received. He was gracious, spoke English and Chinese equally well, and knew how to please the crowd. Many a shed item of undergarment was flung that night. And not all of them female ones.

One bit was quite well done. Obviously scripted, but quite well done.

MC: "So Nicholas, since it's your first time in Singapore in quite a number of years, we want to quiz you on something."

Nicholas: "Aiyayai. Well sure, but don't make it too difficult!"

MC: "Oh, we're sure you won't know this one. It's very difficult. Now, what we want to ask you is, what area of Singapore are you performing in right now?"

NIcholas: "Oh, come on. You must be kidding. How could I not know THE PEOPLE OF YISHUN?!"

It's a little hard to bring across in text, but he started off his answer soft and nonchalant, then turned it into a nice roar towards the end. It got a great response, of course. His voice was the sort that could carry it off. If I'd tried that, there would have been a squeak somewhere in the roaring bit. Zao siah, as we call it. And everyone would look at me stupidly instead of swooning like they did for Nicholas.

So that's the end of my series of little unofficial reports. Each one took me a little short of three hours including sorting, re-sizing and uploading. It was a fun and well-done, if tiring day for me, and I hope I've managed to convey some of that to you.

Plus, I have to write several reports about it soon, so I have to keep it fresh in my mind.

Wot, you thought this was all about you?

The Day's Takings, Part 2.

2005-08-22T22:14:00.000+08:00

Feeling a fair bit better. You'll be forgiven if you thought that was all I had to say about that affair at Yishun on National Day. Selecting/Resizing and then hosting was about three times the time I thought it would take. Meh.

We resume the recount of events two bloody weeks ago with a badly done Photoshop by yours truly.

Told you he was giving me the finger. Do me a favour and don't look too closely.

Some of the stuff made me wish I had this kind of thing around as a kid. Not that I would have gotten to go, really. But the not-being-able-to-go would build up healthy kid-angst. Which as we all know is essential to growing up a wholesome person.

However wholesome a person I am aside, the kids at the celebrations had it gooood. Look!

-> ->

This little girl got to dress up in a chemical defense suit and get smacked with twenty thousand litres of water. Which is...fun, I suppose.

And these little girls got to play soldier! Aren't they seriously adorable in a non-sarcastic way? ...It's sad when you have to clarify yourself when you say things like that.

Of course, if you're male it's all quite different. You'll think it's all very exciting, then hit 18, get conscripted, and wonder just what the hell you were thinking when you were 8.

You also had the option of taking a ride in either the spiffy new Civil-Dee vehicle which really is quite nice, or an Armoured Personnel Carrier from the Army. Refer short paragraph above for comment on the latter. The queue for both was quite insane - you had to wait in line for upwards of 45 minutes to take a spin around the field.

Would have been worth it, I suppose, if only to watch the expressions of OMGWTF on the faces of drivers around you.

Performances aplenty as well, that day. It was about mid afternoon by the time they came out properly - Costumers, fire-breathers and the Singapore Management University Samba Masala Club. It means "Brazilian Drums", if I recall. The way it translates in Singapore would be funny. "Dance Curry". Hee hee. I kill me.

The Samba Masala Club. They were fantastic. I've always liked a good lively beat, and they had TehGroovitude. I shyly approached one of the guys with the fuck-off huge drums for a comment on how they felt about performing there. One. Bloody. Comment.

Of course he has to call the whole team back. Surrounded by pretty women wielding instruments that suddenly looked very ominous, and golden-haired men with large pointy sticks, I suddenly felt very alone.

It went decently, though. I carried myself with aplomb, and found out a fair bit. Then I made a mad dash for it once someone called for them.

These are some of the better costumes. The first pair was a little whacked. My first thought was, "Have I been smoking that shit?" , followed by "Oh wait. I can't get that shit here. So this must be real. Whoa." . The second was nicely surreal, I felt.

Mr Butterfly in the last picture was a huge hit with the crowd for pictures. Can't blame them, really. I mean it's a five-metre long butterfly. Pretty good looking for a butterfly, too. There was almost a queue forming in that open space, with the number of people who wanted a piece of him.

...as opposed to this dude. You're looking at a costume, the top of which was about three metres high. I felt bad for this guy, because

1. His head, for the entire duration of the thing, was smack in the lion's crotch. It was a sort of very long lion-stickman costume, you see. The arms were movable by means of the sticks attached to its arms, and what I didn't get a picture of was the lower half, which had long legs sort of bent over in a squatting position. Right on top of the poor dude.

2. No one wanted to take pictures with him lah. It was a flamboyant costume, but didn't go very well appeal-wise. All you could get if you took the picture was of the legs, anyway. I peeked underneath the lion's buttox and asked him if he was lonely. A little startled at first, he resignedly replied that it was all about the costume. Kept saying it like some kind of mantra, he did. Remarkably, a woman with a kid came over to take a picture right after. One.

Even Peacock-man got more pictures taken than LonelyLion. Peacock man! With the super-power of...making things look very colourful!

...look, it beats the super-power of having it the size of a pea, alright?

These guys were awesome. They were the Fat Brothers from Australia, and you just got to give credit to people who can come up with an idea like that. Got to have a flair for being comic too, and they had it.

I saw them later that night, carrying their packed-up costumes off. I just had to chuckle. The man who invents a weight-loss system that works that well will have it made.

And of course, the pretty women. These were the Mardi Gras dancers on the programme sheet, I think. I actually knew the one in red on the right, in the first picture.
I thought she looked a bit familiar, so I was looking at her intently trying to figure it out. Yes, at her face, way up there. And then she looks over. "Oh, you're from CJ right? I forgot your name!". Bright, chirpy girl. Very cute, too. But do any of them ever remember my name?

They got together, all the costumers, the girls and the Samba Masala Club. The...SM Club played some fantastic music while the rest of them danced. Well ok, the Mardi Gras girls danced. The rest just sort of bobbed happily up and down in time to the music. Hey, you try dancing with a two-metre-wide buttock, or a five metre wingspan.

I had pictures, but they were just too messy. Most turned out a jumble of shapes and colour, due to their odd sizes. Only way to get a good shot was by helicopter, I think.

So I present to you instead, Fabian the Fantastic Flame Fandango!

No, I just made that up. Would have been a good name, though. If he ever sneezes, you run. Fast and far. No, do not ask questions. Just run.

Also featuring, Feena of the Fabulous Fire Finesse!

Well, not really. Made that one up too.

I have this one chance to say it while being entirely descriptive and not at all lewd. This one chance, possibly in my life. And I will say it.

She swallows.

That about concludes it for the afternoon show. Much of my time was spent walking around looking for good pictures to take, and talking to people a little about the whole affair. And running to and from the dollar-per-can drink stall. It was fuck-off hot that day.

I have a bit more to put up from here till the end of the thing at ten in the night. Humongous affair, wasn't it? I've eased off my standards of credibility now. Instead of aiming to put it up in the few days after, or even the week after National Day, I will now be happy if I can get them up within the National Day month.

I'm only half kidding, too.

I leave you now, with a picture that for some reason just brought to mind Harry Potter. Very strange, considering I've never touched any of the books. Ah, the tragedy of pop culture.

Notice the grace and fluidity, of his balls in the air.

Look, we all have to indulge that juvenile humour sometimes, alright? Yeesh.

A four-line break.

2005-08-21T20:22:00.000+08:00

Sniffle, sniffle, sneeze a lot
I've got the influenza
A little virus called his friends
Over for beer and pizza

The Day's Takings, Part 1.

2005-08-17T23:32:00.000+08:00

WE WANT MOOOOORE!

...your silence tells me.

As far as I know, Singapore's previous 39 National Day celebrations were all held at the National Stadium or Padang. You could queue for your free tickets at your local Community Centre, but be prepared to queue. With each ticket entitling the holder not only to entry but 01 x Decent Goodie Bag, the Singapore Spirit had the things snapped up within two hours of the doors opening every year. So if you lucked out, it was just you and your telly.

Hey, at least you could join the celebrations in your red/white underwear, I suppose. Anything beyond that, I don't want to know. Babies born on 9th May each year must have exceptionally patriotic parents.

This year was different. Other than the Stadium, celebrations were held at four other places: Marina, Yishun, Tampines and Jurong. The actual event would be linked over the airwaves via live broadcasts, with the classic, "HELLO OTHER PLACE. WE'RE HAVING FUN OVER AT THIS PLACE WHAT ABOUT YOU??!" kind of thing done over fuck-off huge monitor assemblies. Which really is quite good. Most people I spoke to felt the travel time to the Stadium of previous years was a bit much.

As with all things done the first time, there were little bumps. Then again, perhaps it's just the way things normally are done around here. One glaring bit, to me, was their idea of good zoning. If you stayed in the West - Commonwealth, for example, your designated place to travel to for "your" celebrations was Yishun. An hour away by anything short of helicopter. Makes sense to them, I suppose.

Organizations the world over seem to have fallen in love with the "@" symbol and of course we're no exception. What this led to were the Celebrations@Yishun, Celebrations@Jurong and Celebrations@Tampines, collectively referred to as the Celebrations@Heartlands. Then there was the Carnival@Marina and Parade@Padang. I swear I'm not making this up. Actual text on the brochures, that is.

And if you don't already know, the symbol is called a snail. So you could be saying to your friends, "Wasn't that ParadeSnailPadang just the greatest thing ever?".

My insignificant opinions aside, it was a day of good fun. The Celebrations@Yishun were held at the open field beside the Golden Village building in Yishun, about ten minutes from the MRT on foot. I got there at about eleven thirty, to an eclectic mix of techno music pumping from one side of the side of the field and warbles of olden-golden Chinese sentimentals from the other. Early look-see-ers were already wandering about, and I study the panoramic view of the field over coffee and cigarettes, waiting for Mr Ancob.

Soon after that chemical kick-start, he calls. I make my way to where he'd said he was over the phone, and there he was looking quite adorable in a pink polo-tee and safari hat! He hands me the camera and sends me packing with instructions to go talk to people.

And here is as much of the day as I can recall. Click on pictures to see it in full size, if you're not familiar with how these things work. I only know Imageshack, so loading may be a little slow. They were taken by Mr Ancob and myself, and I can only appeal to your inherent sense of all that's cute and furry, not to use them without informing me.

Very fitting banner, I thought. The day was as hot as Britanny Murphy - I actually got a tan from the wandering about. This was the rock-climbing section, and quite popular. Some of the kids who gave it a shot proved quite dextrous. I waited quite a bit there, but finally moved on, having decided disappointedly that no one was actually going to go splat.

Army and Civil Defence exhibitions are almost obligatory on National Day. I got quite jealous of the Civil-Dee people walking around nicely watered down. The guns in the first picture shoot a strong, fine mist of water with hardly any recoil.

The contraption that looks like what they used in Ghostbusters was quite impressive. I watched with amusement as an Indian man underwent a rather long instructional brief before being allowed to fire the thing. I found out why. The thing shoots something like...a ball of wet air. Very fast. No, really very fast. Standing next to the dude grinning stupidly to myself, I was decidedly unamused as he aimed the thing at the ground and gouged out a good-sized chunk of already-wet soil. Guess where the mud went.

Mr Civil-Dee with the burny-stick I would dearly love to wield was in charge of relighting the fire...hehe. RELIGHT MAHHH FIREEEE! Sorry. But yes, he was. They had a line of little metal woks on stands you see, which they set on fire. Excited civilians would then queue to use an actual fire extinguisher to put the fire out. Got a little repetitive pretty fast.

Psssssssst. FWOOM. Pssssst. FWOOOM.

They had fresh extinguishers at first, which made that nice noise along with the white mist you see in movies. Then they ran out, and a trip around the back of the Civil-Dee tent uncovered a group of the Civil-Dee men surreptitiously filling the empty ones up with water. They then became very sad squirt-guns, because all they had as propellant was compressed air which they pumped into the extinguishers after filling them up.

I felt bad for the little kid who must have been wondering why his extinguisher seemed to be urinating on the fire instead of doing that cool mist-gush like the bloke next to him.

I'll make this the end of the first bit. Gosh, and we're not even done with half the day yet.

I leave you with obligatory pictures of Cute Kid and Pretty Girl.

Singapore never looked this good.

A rather cute kid I found.

...Say what you will. I still think he's trying to give me the finger, in the second picture.

My loins. They are afire.

2005-08-15T23:01:00.000+08:00

...as are my torso, shoulders, arms and head. The weather in Singapore is fuckin' schizo. And yes, I have a fan. I live however in a roughly 2 by 2.5m box. On the ground floor. And intelligently painted black.

It fits me nicely, and looks...well, used to look nice, but damned if it doesn't seem to turn the ambient temperature up five degrees on horrible nights like these.

It sounds classier in mandarin, this description of the weather:

"Zhe bu shi pu tong de re." - This is no ordinary heat.

Or with a little more zing, in beng:

"GAN PUA DJUA AH." - Err. Broken...intercourse...hot. A lot is lost in translation.

Yes, I still owe a telling of my National Day celebrations experience to you, three people and small yappy-type dog. But in this heat, I just want to curl up into a moist, sticky ball and whimper.

I should tell you what happened the other day, though.

I was T.H.I.S happy the other day when the air conditioning guys came to patch up that hunk of lovin' that loved no more at my window. Took the damned thing apart and scrubbed it to bits. Fan motor's a little shot, but we've fixed it so you can use it for a bit, he says.

And there was COLD AIR flowing into the room. I watched it. Touched it lovingly. Held my cheek against it and kissed it tenderly (the air conditioner, not the dude). After about half a year's inactivity, we could resume our nightly unions once more! Elated, I thanked the air conditioner dudes and tipped them a fair bit. Seventy dollars in all, it was.

The damned thing died again the same night, lah.

Sucks to be me, it does.

S! I-N! G-A-P-O-R-E! -clapclapclap-

2005-08-12T23:09:00.000+08:00

Does anybody remember that little cheer?

Never heard it since I left Primary School, I think. Pity, really. The old school national songs beat the new ones by far. I have no idea what the song was for last year, but damned if I can't remember all the lyrics to just about all the songs I learned as a kid.

We have a vision for tomorrow
(Just believe. Just believe)
We have a goal for Singapore
(We can achieve. We can achieve)

You and me
We'll do our...

Ok, point made. But they were lovely songs, and gall me as it does to admit it, enjoyable to sing. This year's "Reach out for the skies" just slowly grinds your sanity away after the third time you hear it. If you've been trapped in a lift for the past two months, you can download the video at this page, which is the official National Day site. A direct link here, for the one I'm talking about.

Getting around to this a fair bit later than I thought I would. But hey, if they think it's alright to organize National Day dinners and parties right up to the end of the week after the day itself, including one on Sunday at seven in the morning, I'm actually a fair bit ahead.

So, yes. I suppose I should start with a very brief history. Mostly from what I recall from school. A refresher for the natives, and gods help you if you're from a foreign country and getting your impression of Singapore from me.

--

Historically, we can trace Singapore's history back to that of a sleepy fishing village originally called Temasek, meaning "Sea" in Javanese. Then in 11AD (yes I looked it up), a Sumatran prince by the name of Sang Nila Utama sailed by, saw a large feline shadow on the island, and promptly renamed it "Singapura", meaning "Lion City". A little pompous, I felt, going around renaming things like that. But, fair enough.

I might be sitting in my attap hut by the sea with a supper of fish right now, were it not for Sir Stamford Raffles, who tripped over our island in 1819. Discovering that our location was absolutely fabulous for a trading hub, he stuck a flag into the ground and claimed us for the British as a colony. Great man, but a bit of a little snot as well.

So the British came, with their muskets and money and hey, it wasn't like we really had a choice. Thus, it came to be that right up to World War II, we served as a gigantic gas station of sorts. We attracted migrants from all over the place, and lured business to the port with tariff exemption. Quite shrewd, that Raffles.

All that is part of my personal theory on why, no matter how much it's publicly denied, the tradition of White Worship is still very much alive today in Singapore, with the classic example being the SPG. Hee hee.

But then the war came to Singapore. And the damned British took one look at the baby-impaling, rape/pillaging Japanese troops...and fucked off! They just fucked off! Well, maybe not quite so fast. They might have thrown a ceremonial rock at the Japanese or something. But fuck off they did.

No disrespect to the valiant ones that fought and died for what they believed in. That is an amazing way to die and something I don't know if I can do. I suppose you can't blame the commanders of the British troops either. This wasn't their home, after all. Still, all that angst must go somewhere.

We were renamed (yes, yet again) Syonan-to by the Japanese. "Sun of the East", if I do not stand corrected. For four painful years we suffered under the rule of the Japan of that time. Intricate knowledge of what happened is beyond me, but they were real bastards. Or so I hear.

An interesting fact I do know is, when Japanese officials needed to buy things from the locals, they simply printed more money. They were, after all, the government. That currency devalued so fast the price of tissue paper rose during the sneeze. And a packet would cost you, say, two baskets full of notes. It was called "banana money", because the Japanese featured pictures of banana trees on them. Of all things.

Then America dropped that fuck-off affair on Hiroshima, and up went the Japanese flag...without the red circle. The Japanese left, the British came back...and we gave them funny looks. It was time to assert our independence. Because hey, if something like that happened again, we'd know at least some of the ones in charge won't fuck off.

The rest is, to excuse the expression, history. My knowledge of the political chronology after that is too imperfect for me to risk embarrassing myself and possibly have men in black suits and dark glasses knocking on my door for. We became a separate entity after a bitter struggle, and on 9th August 1965 - a Nation was born.

...And now we make most of our money by making chocolate in the shape of a fish with a lion's head, and selling it to tourists. Well, not really. But I'd say one would have to be smoking that shit to come up with something like that. It very strangely works, tourist-wise.

I bring myself a step closer to being banished to Sentosa by saying...it's a godawful creation, for chrissakes. Fish tail, to symbolize fishing village roots - Yes. Lion's head, to symbolize the majesty and such - Yes. The thing is, it's something that only works on paper, really. I suppose that five-storey high statue of the Merlion proves me wrong, though. Weird tourists.

Very curiously, with all the going-ons about the Lion symbolizing Singapore, crests and mascots made about it and such... . Lions never actually inhabited Singapore. Ever. Sang Nila Utama, bless his heart, had his contacts out, that day.

Uh.
That was my...brief introduction. I was actually going to talk about the National Day Celebrations this year, one of which I was at, you see.

The next time I want to write about something, I should start off writing it as an introduction to something else. Sigh.

My Nazi consciousness.

2005-08-09T23:21:00.000+08:00

Human beings have the most amazing propensity and ability to self-rationalize everything. It's rather a quaint trait, and possibly what really sets us apart from animals besides the opposable thumbs.

Equally amazing things come of that trait. Hitler, for example, knew he was doing the right thing by killing the millions of Jews he did and embarking on a war that cost millions more lives. Never once did he doubt himself.

...which is why I sit now, with a fresh pack of my thirty-seventh last pack of fags, and a pint of Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia that I have no business owning with my limited finances and such. And I am going to play Maple Story instead of doing a proper entry and/or working on one of the five other things I really should be. I mean, compared to Hitler, my sin is like kittens taking a dump in the wrong place.

Horribly tiring day. Been out and on my feet for more than eleven hours. I vaguely promise a decent read about what I was supposed to be covering today, soon. And yes, it's what you think it is, judging from the date.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go see which body part I can amputate to avoid going to work tomorrow.